


Mine Angel

by Lee Normandeau (Miri_Thompson)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels Still Have Their Wings, Canon Divergence, Case Fic, F/M, M/M, No Mention of Mark, Spoilers through season 10, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:31:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 64,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4230678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri_Thompson/pseuds/Lee%20Normandeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has a lot on his mind: Sam is pushing him toward Dean, Dean has become a master of mixed messages—and, yes, there’s that 400 year old celebrity, freshly resurrected, to contend with . . . along with a reckoning for his own past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awkward Conversations

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Theatregirl7299 and Clodia Metelli for the beta!

I had mastered one human emotion: I knew how to be perturbed. Flustered. Confused—whatever word sums up all of those. And as Sam kept talking, the feeling kept growing more and more intense.

“So, Cas, what I’m trying to say is this—” He gave me a small, encouraging smile as he broke off.

We were sitting opposite each other at one of the bunker’s research tables, but we both had our books closed in front of us. Sam clearly had something he wanted to convey before we started. Something that made my vessel’s stomach feel like it was hosting a sack of snakes, all twisting and squirming.

“Yes?” I prompted.

He took a deep breath. “I’m trying to tell you what I told my thick-skulled brother.  If there’s something going on between you two, it’s okay. You don’t have to hide it.”

“Something going on? We’re not—” I shut my mouth and thought long and hard before opening it again. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Something romantic, Castiel. If you two are involved, it’s fine.” He opened the book in front of him. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

He didn’t seem to expect a reply, but I attempted to formulate one regardless. “Sam, thank you. But Dean and I are not romantically involved. I am fairly certain that Dean would never—“

I stopped talking before I said too much. Dean didn’t realize how much I knew about what Sam called his ‘issues.’ But he wouldn’t want me to share the information. Especially with his brother. “It, um, won’t happen.”

“It probably won’t.” Sam kept his eyes glued to the book. “Not if you don’t make it happen.”

I sighed. “Sam, Dean and I are fine just as we are.”

He finally looked up again. His eyes had a resigned look to them. “If you say so.”

 

~*~

 

I spent an hour at the table before I got up to look for Dean. I was hoping not to be too obvious. Perhaps I succeeded, because Sam didn’t say anything when I left.

I found Dean sitting on the staircase, mulling over something. His expression was half-stoic and half pissed off. I swallowed.  Was he still stewing over his brother’s words?

I approached him regardless, but with even more snakes squirming around my vessel’s innards. “Hi, Dean.”

“Hi.”

“I was, ah, speaking with Sam earlier.”

“Yeah?”

“He said he told me the same thing he told you.”

Dean scoffed. “What, he gave you the ‘you-don’t-have-to-be-ashamed-if-there’s-something-going-on-between-you-two’ speech?”

“Between you and me. Yes.”

He shook his head. “That bitch.”

I floundered. “Well, I, um, just wanted to let you know—well, you know.”

He gave me a look. “No, Cas. I don’t know. Why don’t you spell it out?”

“Dean, why are you angry with me?”

His eyes flared at that—but only for a second. Then his expression softened. In fact, his eyes were almost gentle as he spoke up again. “I’m not. This isn’t on you.”

I took a seat beside him, but didn’t say anything. Neither did he. So we just sat there for a while.

Dean broke the silence. “Look, are you hoping for something more than friendship here?”

“You said we’re family. That’s—that’s even more than friendship, isn’t it?”

“That’s not what I mean. And you know that.”

I stared down at my hands. “Dean, I’m not like you. I don’t require—” I broke off and squinted, not sure I was really hearing what I was hearing.

“You don’t require what?”

But I had to focus on this other cry—the one filling my head. I stood up and held up a hand. “Quiet!”

He was silent for a moment, but then he climbed to his feet too. He wasn’t angry, I don’t think, but there was a look of concern on his face. “Cas?”

“There’s someone calling me.” She was begging me to come, begging me to help her. I could feel her confusion and fright. And she was not a woman who frightened easily.

“Oh yeah? I thought only we called on you like that.” Dean gave me a mock-flirtatious look as he slouched back against the railing. “You been seeing some other hunter behind our backs?”

“She’s not a hunter. She’s not even—” I stopped, stunned. “Dean, she’s been dead for over four hundred years.”

That induced him to straighten up. “What?”

“I stayed with her the night before her execution.”

“Woah—wait!” Dean’s eyes widened. “Her execution?”

“Yes. She was executed in England for . . .” I let my voice trail off, wondering how many of the charges I should list. “Well, she was convicted of treason. But many people believed her to be practicing witchcraft—though she was not formally charged of that.”

“So, was she really a witch?”

“No!”

“Hey, don’t get offended. I know those crazy medieval types saw witches everywhere, but they must have been right some of the time.”

“All the accusations against her were false.” I closed my eyes, remembering the strength of her prayers the night before her death. “I don’t know why—or how—she’s here, in our time, but I have to go to her. Now.”

“Okay.” Dean nodded slowly. “Okay. Take me with you.”

“No, this is for me—”

“Cas, we don’t know what you’re walking into. Come on, man.”

I stared at him, gauging his determination. I could see it there, burning bright in his eyes and in his soul: a misguided but comforting need to protect me. So, at length, I nodded. “Very well.”

“Good. So we’re off to England?”

I closed my eyes, focusing on her call. “No. Virginia.”

“Virginia? Why Virginia?”

I opened my eyes again. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. Virginia it is. Stay right here while I go tell Sam.” His eyes hardened. “Don’t you dare leave without me.”

“I won’t.”

He left and, as promised, returned almost immediately.

I placed my hand on his shoulder. He used to stiffen whenever we were about to travel this way—but now he relaxed into my hold. I tightened my grip and a second later we vanished.


	2. A Classy Establishment

Dean let out a low whistle as we ‘landed.” Then he pulled out his gun. “We’re in Virginia? Where, Richmond?”

“Yes.” I blinked at our new surroundings, which seemed vaguely familiar. “This, I think, is the Jefferson Hotel.”

Dean slowly turned around, sweeping the room with his eyes. “Classy. Messed up, but classy.”

I suppose that was the right way to describe this—this luxury room, apparently. There were severed ropes and strewn flowers lying on top of a soaked rug, along with the broken remains of a glass vase. Someone had been forcibly restrained here, and that same someone proved resourceful enough to smash the vase and cut through the ropes with the broken glass.

“Ah, Cas?”

“Yes?” She must have been the one tied up. But who would have brought her back in the first place?

“You didn’t have this vessel four hundred years ago.” He nodded toward a shadowy figure pressed against the wall, partially hidden by the long curtains of the window. “I don’t think she recognizes you.”

I peered at her. “Anne?”

Something glinted in her hand. A broken shard of glass—she was holding it as a weapon.

“Hey.” Dean’s voice was soft as he lowered his gun. “It’s okay. We’re not here to hurt you.”

That didn’t seem to reassure her. I’m not even sure she understood him. The English language had changed since her day, and his accent would be all but unrecognizable to her.

I put my hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Kneel down, avert your eyes and shut them tight.”

“What?”

“I’m going to show her who I am.”

“You’re going to—wait. Your true form, you mean? Won’t she be blinded if she sees an angel for real?”

“No. Not her.”

He opened his mouth to—to what?  Protest?—but then abruptly shut it again. I watched him glance at Anne and then back at me. But he put his gun away and slowly lowered himself to his knees. He looked away from me, covering his eyes with his arm.

I couldn’t entirely reveal myself; I was roughly the size of the Chrysler Building, after all. But I could give her the same glimpse I had all those centuries ago: a glimpse of the flaming, winged and, to human sight, monstrous being that was my true visage.

I kept it up only for a few seconds, but that was enough. The windows, fortunately, did not shatter, but every light in the room blew out. My vessel’s eyes adjusted quickly to the strands of sunlight streaming in where the curtains weren’t quite closed.

Anne let out a cry that was half terrified and half relieved. Then she dropped the glass shard and collapsed back against the wall, letting it support her.

I squeezed Dean’s shoulder. “It’s safe now.”

He let his arm drop slowly as he looked up at me. He was wearing an odd expression, part wary and part . . . I’m not sure what. I almost want to say awed, but that would be too far out of character for him. At any rate, it didn’t matter. He climbed to his feet and stared at Anne.

She took a deep breath and then stood up erect. She looked just as I remembered—she was even dressed in the same gray gown she had worn to her execution. Her head was bare, though, allowing her chestnut hair to spill down her back.

She looked us both over and then, with a familiar determination, strode up to me. I watched her fall to her knees, grab my hand and start kissing it.

Dean’s mouth dropped open.

For my part—well, I tried to focus on her. “Anne—”

She interrupted me with a torrent of words.

Dean scrunched up his brow. “Is that—is that French?”

“An older form of French, yes.”

“What is she saying?”

I tried to keep up. “Ah, first she was thanking me for answering her call for help. Now she wants to know who you are.” I paused to answer her.

Dean raised his eyebrows at my French. “What did you just say?”

“That you are my special charge—that I’m your guardian.”

He looked down in time to see her shift so that she was kneeling in front of him, now.  Then she addressed him in French, grabbed his hand and started kissing it.

“Wait!” He tried to snatch back his hand, but then gave up. He gave me a helpless look instead.

“She thinks you must be a holy and pious man to have me for a guardian,” I explained.

He scoffed. “That’s wrong on so many levels I don’t know where to start.”

I gave him an apologetic shrug.

Dean ignored that and crouched down in front of Anne, so that they were eye to eye. "Hey, it's okay. We're going to figure out why you're here and what happened." He paused. "Do you speak English? Can you understand me at all?"

Anne released his hand and nodded slowly, so she must have understood the gist of his words. 

"Okay. Okay, that's good." He offered her a comforting smile as he put his hands on her arms, turning her wrists toward him so he could examine the rope burns. “Someone tied you up, huh? Don’t worry—we’ll figure out what’s going on.”

She looked at me and then back at Dean.

“I know. You’re only catching part of what I say.” He moved his hands to her forearms, helping them both up.  “I'm Dean. Cas and I are going to bring you someplace safe, and then ask you some questions."

“Cas?” Anne raised her eyebrows.

“Yeah.” He nodded toward me as he released her. “Castiel.”

“I never told her my name.”

“Oh.” Dean shrugged. “Well—Anne, right? Our mutual friend here is Castiel. Now you know. Come on. Why don’t you sit down for a moment?”

She gave him a speculative glance and then placed a hand lightly on his arm. Apparently that was a signal that he was allowed to guide her to a seat. I shouldn’t have been surprised—Anne was never one to remain humble.

Dean gave her a weird look, but then shrugged and walked her over to the stately arm chair near the corner of the room. She sat down gracefully, arranging her skirts as she did so. Then she turned her face toward me and addressed me once again in French.

“Come on,” Dean huffed. “Doesn’t she speak English?”

“Yes.” I didn’t offer him any further explanation for her preference for French. “She remembers her execution. She’s asking me if she’s alive because of a miracle.”

“Huh. That’s a hell of a question.”

“So it is.”

“What are you going to tell her?”

“The truth. That I don’t know.”

“Before you tell her anything—” Dean broke off and looked around the room. “Well, if someone had a nanny-cam set up to spy on their captive here, it probably blew out when you, ah, showed yourself.” He paused to make a face. “Anne’s one of those special people that can see your true form, right?”

Was there a hint of jealousy in his voice? “Yes.”

“Does that mean we can assume she’s who you think she is? Or should we break out the salt, silver, iron and holy water?”

I knew he always carried some of each, but I shook my head. “That won’t be necessary.”

“All right. You’d know if she was a demon.”

Anne seemed confused by Dean’s words; she demanded a translation. I tried to explain the ways he could assure himself that she was, in fact, human and not something  . . . unnatural. 

Her eyes were narrowed at Dean by the time I told her about his silver knife.  I wasn’t sure if she was outraged or impressed by what Dean wanted to do to her. She looked back to me, speaking more of that rapid French. I answered as best I could.

Finally she turned her attention to her left sleeve. She undid the lacings on it, and pulled it up along with the sleeve of her shift, exposing more of her skin. Then she held out her right hand to Dean. “Thy knife?”

He pulled the knife out. “Thy? All formal, huh?”

I coughed. “Actually, Dean, ‘thy’ is familiar.”

He glared at me before turning back to her. “I’m not giving you this knife. If you want to go through with this—and you don’t have to; Cas is vouching for you—I’ll do the honors.”

A long moment of silence ensued as the pair of them engaged in a staring contest. It ended when Anne, who was a master at picking her battles, gave a graceful little shrug as she held out her left arm.

But Dean shook his head. “No. We’ll start with the holy water.”

 

~*~

 

There was admiration in Dean’s eyes as he watched the blood trickle from Anne’s arm. I felt my vessel’s stomach clench that. Anne wasn’t beautiful—not by human standards—but she had a certain allure. And Dean rarely ignored a woman’s charms. How could I expect him not to be interested?

I wasn’t jealous of Dean’s lovers, I reminded myself.  In fact, I wanted him to find a measure of the peace he’d had with his ex, Lisa. He would never find that with Anne, though. And she was not the sort of woman to settle for an affair. If she started something with him, it wouldn’t be quick and easily forgotten—it would be dramatic and messy and full of long-term resentments.

I shook myself. Dean couldn’t be fool enough to sleep with a woman out of her time—and out of the natural order. We had no idea what ramifications there would be for Anne’s sudden reappearance. It was possible, though I prayed this wouldn’t come to pass, that we would have to lay her back to rest.

Dean knew that as well as I did. I sighed, hoping that he wouldn’t fall for her.

But as I watched him wipe the knife and step away, I realized that both his body and his soul were calm and unperturbed—neither was flaring with lust or desire. He admired Anne, yes, but he didn’t want her.

I felt the tension in my vessel drain away.

“Tell me something, sweetheart,” Dean said, looking down at her—and at the blood. “You’ve been through your own brand of hell, haven’t you?”

Once again, I think she got the gist of his words. She gave him an imperious look, as if a question with such an obvious answer wasn’t worth the reply.

“Yeah, you have.” He grunted. “Not literally, like me—I don’t think so, anyway. But you’ve been through something. Something even more than the execution, I bet. It takes one to know one, trust me.”

He turned to me. “Well, she passed all our tests. Heal her cuts and those rope burns and any medieval germs she might be carrying around. And, you know—any other medieval issues. Then wing us all to the bunker. We don’t know what’s going to come looking for her yet.”

“We should scour this place first.”

“Well, you can do that faster than I can.”

He had a point. I nodded and got to work.


	3. We Do What We Have To

Our arrival back in the research area of the bunker went well. Or as well as I could reasonably hope. Charlie, who was sitting at a research table with her laptop open, gasped. Sam, who had been peering at the same screen over her shoulder, gaped.  And Anne dug her fingers so deep into my vessel’s arm that I thought the tips would reach bone.

But Dean just smiled at everyone and didn’t even bother shaking my hand off his shoulder. “Hey all,” he said. “This is Anne. She’s from—a long time ago. I don’t think she knows that yet, though.  She’s French. She got burned at the stake in England. People thought she was a witch.  Now somebody’s brought her back.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

I broke it. “Ah, she was born in England. And she was not burned. She was beheaded.”

Dean scoffed. “Well, that’s faster, at least. Oh, and by the way? She can see Cas in his real form. He hung out with her the night before she died.”

Sam and Charlie exchanged glances and then went back to staring at us. Anne, meanwhile, released my arm and, reverting to French once again, demanded to know if we were discussing her execution.

“Yes,” I answered, sticking to contemporary English. I let go of Dean’s shoulder and turned toward her. “There are a few things we should tell you. Perhaps you should sit down.”

She shook her head, took a deep breath, and addressed me again. Another torrent of French followed.

Dean, who was now half-leaning against the long table, glanced from one of us to the other. “What’s up?”

“Before we explain anything, she wants to know about her daughter. Where she is now, and whether her husband harmed her.”

“Oh.” His face softened. “She married some abusive bastard, huh?”

“She married a monster,” I answered as Anne’s eyes darted between us. “A human monster, I mean.”

Sam grunted. “The worst kind.”

Charlie closed her laptop, put her elbows on the table and looked at me wide-eyed. “Did he hurt the kid?”

“No.” I took a step closer to Anne. “No. Your daughter outlived him, Anne. She outlived all of them.”

Dean gave me a strange look. “All of who?”

“Mine enemies.” Anne said in English. And then she put her hand on her heart, she shut her eyes and whispered a prayer. But when she opened her eyes and spoke again, she went back to French.

“Cas?” Dean asked.

I sighed. “She doesn’t understand how I would know that her daughter outlived all of her enemies—unless, perhaps, I’m seeing into the future. And she’s asking for me to bring her little girl here.”

“She doesn’t know how much time has passed.” Sam walked around the table and pulled out a chair for her. “Please, sit down.”

Anne cocked her head at him.

“Oh, I’m Sam,” he said. “Dean’s brother. And that’s Charlie over there. She’s—well, she’s like a little sister to me and Dean. And to Cas.”

Anne considered Sam. And then Charlie. At length she nodded and turned back to me, expectantly.

Once again, I kept with contemporary English. More or less. “Anne,” I began. “This anno Domini 2015.”

She stared at me for a long moment and then sank down into the chair.

“We don’t know how you came to be here,” Dean said. “But it would help if you could tell us everything you remember.”

Charlie stood up and rolled her eyes. “Or we could give her some time to process!” She walked over to Anne and held out her hand. “Come on. Let’s get you set up in a room—someplace you can rest. And we’ll find you more comfortable clothes.”

“Wait—”

“Dean,” Sam interrupted, “Charlie’s right.” He looked down at Anne. “I mean—yes, you might want to rest up before we, um, question you.”

Anne nodded slowly as she stood up and turned to Dean. She was pale, I realized. So pale that I wondered if I should heal her again, lest she faint. But she didn’t faint. She stayed on her feet, looking calm and composed . . . by the sheer force of her will, I think.

She favored Dean with a brief but respectful curtsey. “I desire you to pardon me that I have troubled you and your family.”

Dean stared at her for a moment, but then his face gave way to the smile I most admired: it was gentle and teasing and reassuring all at the same time. “English, finally. I mean, your pronunciation is weird, but we understand you.” He paused. “So it’s ‘you’ and ‘your’ now? No ‘thy’ stuff? Does that mean we’re being formal?”

She gave him an arch smile in return—one that was appreciative but not, I think, flirtatious. Well, not quite. “I thank thee for thy kindness.”

“No problem. Go ahead and get some rest. We can talk tomorrow.”

Satisfied, Anne took Charlie’s hand and followed her off to the bedrooms.

“Huh.” Sam folded his arms across his chest as he watched them go. “I think she’s decided that you’re in charge here, Dean.”

“Yeah. That’s because she’s insightful.” He paused to grin up at his younger brother. “She also thinks I’m holy and pious, because I’m Cas’s favorite.”

“Seriously, dude? You played the angelic favorite card?”

“Cas played it, not me. He told her that he was my guardian and I was his ‘special charge’ or something.”

Sam snorted. “That makes you sound like his ward.”

Dean gave him a playful punch to the arm. “Bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam shot back.

They were both grinning now. And that was good.  Dean’s relationship with his younger brother was often complicated and messy . . . but at the moment I could see nothing but affection radiating from his soul. I couldn’t gaze into Sam’s soul in the same way, but even without such insight it was obvious that the feeling was mutual.

I winged away, leaving the brothers to their moment.

 

~*~

 

"Cas! Get your feathery ass back here!"

I smiled at Dean's words. Other angels, I imagine, are the recipients of more respectful pleas from humanity—but I wasn't keen to trade.

"Now, Cas. I'm in my room."

I appeared behind him, near his bed, as he paced by the doorway. He rolled his eyes when he spotted me and shut the door. "Why did you disappear?"

"You and Sam seemed to be sharing a moment."

He bit back a grin—somehow I never put the inflection Dean expected into my words, and he found that oddly amusing. "Maybe, but we weren't kicking you out, man. Besides, we have a case." He nodded at the bed. "Sit down."

I did so. But the sack of snakes that had seemed to be squirming around my vessel's stomach earlier were back in action. I wasn't sure why, though. Apparently Dean had forgotten about our other conversation—the one Anne had interrupted. I had nothing to worry about.

Or had he? If he just wanted to discuss the case, why weren't we at one of the research tables? I squashed that question as he took a seat beside me, leaving plenty of room between us. 

"Charlie got Anne settled," he began.

"Good. I hope she's resting. Anne, I mean."

"She is. It took a while, though. Apparently she was pretty fascinated by the bathroom. Anyway, Charlie's still up. She's researching the Jefferson hotel, trying to figure out who that room was rented to."

"You mean she's hacking into the hotel records."

He shrugged. "She's trying. Don't bother objecting—I don't want to hear it. We need this information. Now, are you sure you didn't find anything in that room? No evidence of spells or rituals or anything?"

"No. If some ritual went on in that room, it's been wiped clean since."

"How clean?"

I shrugged. "Sparkling."

"Uh-huh. Sort of like when you were covering tracks from me, Sam and Bobby?"

The words dug into my essence like an angel blade. "Dean—no. I didn't—"

"Relax." He reached over and put his hand on my shoulder. "I don't think you did this, Cas. And I don't think you're hiding anything from me right now.  But we know there are a limited number of beings who can pull off a resurrection.”

"Crowley can—under the right circumstances."

"Yeah." He let go of me. "If some idiot was fool enough to sell his soul to bring back a woman who died over four hundred years ago. So I’m crossing off demon for now.  I think an angel is looking pretty good for this."

I stared down at my hands. “Maybe. Dean, I’m not hiding anything from you. But there are several things I haven’t told you yet.”

“All right. Shoot.”

“I’m familiar with the Jefferson Hotel. On occasion I would meet with Balthazar there, down in the lobby.”

Dean said nothing.

I swallowed. I wasn’t sure if he knew what happened between Balthazar and me—or exactly what I had done to my friend and brother angel. But, judging by the length of his silence, he had guessed.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

I obeyed him.

“There’s a couple of conversations we’ve never had. About things you did—and about things I did too.”

His sins were nothing compared to mine, but I sensed this was not the time to make that point.

“But we’re not having those conversations now,” Dean continued. “And, look, we’re too busy to let guilt eat us up. We’re going to focus on finding out who brought Anne back, and why. And—well, we’re going to figure out what we have to do about her being here. Whether her being here is going to fuck up our reality.”

“I don’t want it to come to that. She doesn’t deserve to be put down.”

“I get that. And I feel the same. But we’re hunters, Cas. We do what we have to.”

“I know.”

“I think Sammy knows it too, and Charlie. But believe me, we all want to protect her. So let’s hope it was an angel.”

I cocked my head at him. He had good reason to distrust most angels. “Why?”

“Well, if it was an angel—they can’t all be dicks, right? Maybe they brought her back for a good reason, and her being alive won’t really go against the natural order. Hell, maybe God brought her back.”

“God?” I stared at him. Dean almost never brought up my Father.

He blushed. That’s the only way to describe how his face reddened. “Yeah.”

“Why would God leave her bound in a hotel room?”

“Good point. But we don’t know yet if the person who resurrected her was the same one who brought her to the hotel room and tied her up.”

“So you really think God might have had a hand in this?”

“Well, she’s special, right? She can see the real you.”

“Yes. So could her brother.”

“You knew him too?”

I nodded. “I was with him the night before his execution—two days before Anne’s.”

Dean’s mouth dropped open. “Damn. What was up with that family?”

I shrugged. “Anne and George were like you and Sam. Whatever happened, they were in it together.”

“Huh. Guess I can’t blame them for that. But, I’m serious, man. Maybe God did bring her back. Or maybe allowed her to be brought back.”

“I don’t know, Dean.”

“Well, why not?” His voice softened and suddenly his eyes seemed to be piercing through my vessel, straight into my essence. “God keeps bringing you back.”


	4. Put Your Head on My Shoulder

I snorted—a reaction I learned from watching both Winchester boys. “God keeps bringing me back, yes. I believe that. But it’s a punishment, Dean. These are punishment resurrections.”

“You still believe that?”

“Yes!” I blinked, trying to make sense of his tone. “I don’t understand.  Are you saying that you don’t?”

It was his turn to look away. “I never believed that.”

I shifted toward him. “Why do you believe God keeps bringing me back, Dean?”

“Because—look, we should get back to the case.”

I stared at him, probing into his soul, trying to get a handle on his thoughts and emotions. There was a dark, murky-gray fear there—a terror of being alone. I was used to that emotion from Dean. It preoccupied him whenever Sam gave him cause for concern.

Losing Sam was Dean’s greatest and most constant fear. Yet he didn’t seem to be thinking about his little brother right now.

“Dean?” I swallowed again. “Dean, I would like to hear your thoughts on this.”

“Fine.” He stood up, walked a couple of steps, and then turned around to face me. “Remember back when we first met? When you told me that you weren’t here to perch on my shoulder?”

I felt my vessel’s face heat up. “Yes. I was—I was putting you in your place.”

“Yeah, I got that. But did you ever think that maybe that’s exactly why you’re here? Why you keep coming back?”

“To serve as your guardian? I haven’t done a good job of that.”

“Yeah? You might have screwed up a lot, Cas, but you’ve spent plenty of time saving my life and setting me straight.”

I sat there with a shocked, stupid expression on my face.

Dean sighed and gave me a tired shrug. “Look, with everything we’ve been through, I’d like to think God has done one decent thing for me and Sam.” He peered at me. “You consider yourself Sam’s guardian too, don’t you?”

“Yes.” I smiled. “I still have a more profound bond with you. That will never change. But I care for Sam almost as deeply and—well, looking after one of you entails looking after the other.”

Dean grinned. “Good. And, uh, I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“For thinking that you exist just for me and Sammy. I know how crazy selfish and self-centered that sounds, dude.”

“Oh.” I considered that. “I don’t care. I hope you’re right, Dean. I hope that’s why God seems to keep resurrecting me. And I will try to do a better job as your guardian. ”

“Okay. And if you lose your angel mojo again, I’ll try to . . . take better care of you. Deal?”

I nodded. “Deal.”

We were both smiling now. And, for a long moment, we were both oddly content.

Then Dean cleared his throat. “I’m tired, man. We’re going to have to shelve any more talk about Anne until tomorrow.”

“I haven’t told you everything about her yet.”

“Well, tell me in front of everyone. After I’ve had my four hours.”

I stood up to go. “You need more than four hours.”

He grunted. “I won’t say no to a long night’s sleep. And I’m not kicking you out, Cas.”

I raised my eyebrows at that.

He blushed again. “Look, you’re not hoping for more than friendship, right? Sam keeps saying—but I know you better.”

So he hadn’t forgotten. “Dean, we’re different. For you—your body and soul are knit tight. For me, this body is still a vessel. I still think of it as Jimmy’s, even after all this time.”

“And that means?”

“It means that sexual relationships are . . . intriguing, but to me they are superfluous. I like them, but I don’t need them. If you ever wanted to, ah, explore—” I stopped to look away. For some reason, my vessel’s face felt flaming hot. “I care about you. In many ways. And I would never refuse you. But I am also content as we are.”

“Huh.”

I glanced back at him.

He was smiling. I’m not sure why; I must have said something amusing. But it was the kind of smile that lights up his whole face. It was beautiful.

“So let me translate, Cas. You’re saying that you wouldn’t kick me out of bed, but you’re good with us as BFFs.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s good. I can deal with that.” He looked happy and relieved and affectionate and—and something else. Some emotion that I still couldn’t name had crossed his face. But it was tinged with desire, whether he would ever admit to that or not.

And odds were he never would. But I understood why.

“Look, Cas.” He knelt down to untie his boots. “I know how weird of me this sounds, but I’m officially taking back all the times I gave you hell for watching me sleep.”

“Watching over you while you sleep, you mean?”

“That’s how you see it?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “Then, yes. If you feel like your guardian duties entail watching over me or Sam whenever—well, you just do what you got to do.”

I smiled at his assumption that he could speak for Sam. Dean was much better at recognizing his younger brother as an autonomous adult now, but he still lapsed from time to time. I decided not to chide him for it. “Thank you. But I think there will still be times when you want privacy.”

“Well, not tonight.” He stood up and toed the boots off. “I’m just going to crash. And maybe you’ve got somewhere else you need to be. But if not, I’d like you to stick around.”

His voice had sped up; he was embarrassed to get these words out. But I wasn’t embarrassed to hear them. Some knot of tension deep inside my vessel—so deep I hadn’t realized it was there—seemed to loosen.

“I’ll stay, Dean. Now get some sleep.”

 

~*~

 

Dean didn’t even manage to undress. Or to get under the covers. But he slept for nine hours straight, and he was down deep for all of them. He wouldn’t remember his dreams, and I had done my best to protect him from his nightmares. He deserved one night, at least, of peace.

I was sitting up on the other side of the bed, reading, when he woke up. For a moment, I expected him to freak, thanks to his compulsion to appear uncompromisingly heterosexual at all times.

But he just squinted at the open book on my lap and then shook his head at my attire. “Dude, next time lose the trench coat before you come to bed.”

Before I could form a retort, Sam interrupted with a knock on the door. “Dean? You awake?”

“Come on in, Sammy,” he called back.

Sam opened the door, but then checked himself. His jaw dropped at the sight of us.

“Don’t get weird, bro.” Dean pushed himself up until he was more-or-less sitting. “Look at us. We’re both fully dressed. It’s platonic.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t be weird about it. I’d just congratulate you two.” He took a seat on the floor, cross-legged, and opened up the laptop he was carrying. “Cas, what else can you tell me about Anne?”

“Maybe you should ask her yourself.” That was Charlie, who strode into the room next, tugging Anne in her wake.

Anne, dressed in yoga pants and a tee shirt that must have belonged to Charlie, looked around the room and then favored Dean with a dignified curtsey. She broke back into that rapid French as she rose.

I looked at Dean. “She’s thanking you again for your hospitality, and for these clothes which she trusts are not considered immodest here, as your sister Charlotte has vouched for them.”

“Charlotte?” Dean stared at me.

“She thinks that’s Charlie’s real name. She’s also pleased that she can, apparently, go out in public like this. With your approval, Dean.”

Charlie choked back a laugh.

Sam, on the other hand, looked offended by Anne’s humble attitude toward Dean. “Anne, my idiot brother is not actually the boss here.”

“Hey!” Dean retorted. “Like I told you, the lady is insightful. And the rest of you ought to treat me with the same respect.”

“Oh yeah?” There was a challenging light in Charlie’s eyes as she followed Sam’s lead and plunked down on the floor. “What makes you the boss of us?”

“According to Anne?” Dean elbowed me. “The fact that I got me an angel.”

“Well, I got me the same angel,” Sam pointed out.

“I had him first. And he likes me better.”

Sam rolled his eyes again.

Charlie narrowed her eyes at me. “Is that really true?”

I sighed. “I share a more profound bond with Dean. But—at a very low point in my existence, Sam retained faith in me when even Dean had lost it.” I looked directly into Sam’s eyes. “I’ve never forgotten that.”

Sam actually blushed.

Dean scoffed and elbowed me again. “All right, all right. I can’t believe you went there, man. We’re doing light-hearted right now.”

“I’m sorry.” I turned to Dean with an earnest look. “I will attempt to lighten up.”

For some reason, Dean, Charlie and Sam all laughed at that. Even Anne smiled. I’m not sure she understood all our words, but the general tone of the banter seemed to have put her at ease. With an air of extreme condescension, she seated herself on the floor, legs folded neatly together, leaving Sam on one side of her and Charlie on the other.

“So, Anne,” Sam began as he started typing, “why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself?”

But Anne was distracted by the laptop. So instead of her telling her story, Sam and Charlie ended up doing a lot of explaining. I translated as necessary.

Dean, for his part, just leaned back and closed his eyes again. “Wake up me up when they’re back on track,” he whispered.

“I—um, all right.” Yes, I was stammering. I think that was acceptable, because Dean wasn’t leaning back on the pillows. He had his head on my shoulder instead.

I understood that there were rules about physical contact between Dean and me, but I had difficulty figuring out exactly what they were and when they applied. And while there were clearly appropriate times for a hand on the shoulder or even a heartfelt hug, I hadn’t realized that resting against one another like this was permitted.

Not that I was complaining.

Only about half an hour passed before Anne seemed to understand and accept that the laptop was the progeny of technology and not witchcraft or deviltry. She was currently captivated by the idea that this ‘Google’ Sam and Charlie kept telling her about could find all sorts of information on a seemingly limitless list of subjects.

I felt my vessel’s stomach sink, though, when she demanded to know what Google could tell them about herself. It’s not that I had been keeping her identity a secret. It’s just that I hadn’t found the right moment to explain. And I had been hoping that Anne herself would choose to keep quiet for a little longer. She must have guessed that her name would still be known today—unless she thought her husband had succeeded in erasing any trace of her existence.

In any case, Sam didn’t know she was anyone of historical note. “Well, um—I’m not sure if you’ll be there,” he explained. “There weren’t such detailed records in your day. But let’s try. What’s your full name? And you’re upper class, right? If you had a title, that might help.”

“And what year were you born?” Charlie added. “And where? The more information, the better.”

She seemed to understand the questions. “Anne Boleyn,” she answered, taking the plunge. “Queen of England. Marquess of Pembroke. I was born in Norfolk in the year of Our Lord 1501.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then I sighed and nudged Dean awake. “I think they’re back on track.”


	5. Riding Shotgun

“Anne fricking Boleyn?” Dean’s words sounded like an accusation. He was sitting up now, thoroughly alert, but he still seemed unable to take this in. “Like, **_The Tudors_** Anne Boleyn? **_Anne of the Thousand Days_** , Anne Boleyn?”

Sam’s eyes were glued to the laptop screen. Probably to Wikipedia. “Yes, Dean.”

“Don’t forget **_The Other Boleyn Girl_**.” Charlie stared at Anne. “Did you really get all Lannister with your brother George?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “How do you expect her to understand that reference?”

Sam glanced up at Dean. “I’m still surprised that you get that reference.”

“ ** _Game of Thrones_** gets a pass!” He looked defensive about liking yet another 'geeky' show. “Lot of hot chicks on it.”

Charlie breathed an amen to that.

“Uh-huh.” Sam shook his head at both his brother and Charlie. “Never mind these two, Anne. Um, look—”

But Anne addressed me. Her dark eyes were fierce and determined, but, for once, her French was slow and cautious. 

Everyone else looked to me for a translation. “She wants to know what Google has told you about the charges against her involving her brother.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Ah, well, according to Wikipedia, she was charged with committing adultery with a whole lot of men. Including her brother George. And, since she was married to the king, Henry VIII, I think that was considered treason.”

Dean scrubbed his face. “Look, Cas says she’s innocent. Of all charges.  And even if she’s not, it’s none of our business.”

“Yeah.” Sam turned to Anne. “We don’t care who you did or didn’t sleep with.”

“Right,” Charlie agreed.  “But we’re curious,” she added under her breath.

Anne looked to me. I think she mostly understood them, but I translated anyway.

She nodded as I finished. Then she spoke in that slow, measured voice again—but this time in English. “To speak a truth, never prince had wife more loyal in all duty, and in all true affection, than he found in me.”

Sam scoffed. “Yeah, well, from what I’m reading about that ‘prince’ here, he didn’t deserve your loyalty.” He paused to raise his eyebrows at something on the screen. “Um, not that you aren’t a little scary yourself.”

Anne stared at him. I think she was amazed that anyone could speak so freely of the king. She was beginning to understand that Henry was dead, that he had been dead for more than 400 years, and that he could no longer hurt her or the people she loved.

So she dared to speak up again, in a burning voice that overrode the quaintness of her English, telling us how she wished she had been scarier. How she almost wished that she had been guilty of the crimes pinned on her.  How her sweet brother or any one of the other men accused could have proved more virile than Henry . . . and could have sired a son on her where Henry had failed.

No one seemed to know what to say to that.

Anne turned bright red in the aftermath of her outburst. She took a deep breath and added that, of course, she would never do anything so flagrantly against the word of God, and that, despite everything, she had loved her husband. Then she begged my forgiveness, and Dean’s—but Sam cut her off.

“We’re all okay with what you just said,” Sam assured her. “I mean, we get where you’re coming from.”

Anne cocked her head at him.

Sam struggled to explain. “It’s okay. It really is. We don’t think you’re crazy or, ah, sick or anything.”

“Okay,” she repeated, tasting the word.

“Yeah. Everything’s okay.” Sam smiled a little. “We know you didn’t really sleep with your brother. And even if you did—well, like Dean said, that’s your business. I’m just surprised that—you know. I thought you’d have a kind of Victorian reserve. But I guess the Tudors weren’t as chaste and easily offended.”

Charlie, meanwhile, was on a completely different tack. “You didn’t need a son, you know.  You had Elizabeth. Here.” She reached over Anne and grabbed the laptop from Sam. “Let’s look up your daughter.”

I glanced at Dean, wondering how he had taken Anne’s words. Incest was a touchy subject with him, however nonchalant he seemed about it. His resistance to any hint of bisexuality in himself stemmed from his own complicated and largely buried feelings about Sam—I had known that since I raised him from perdition.

These feelings—feelings that he had no desire to act on, as far as I could guess—probably weren’t the big deal that Dean thought they were. But how was I supposed to tell him that? He’d be angry if he knew how deeply I could peer into his soul. And even if I tried to explain, he’d just remind me that I didn’t understand a damn thing about human emotions or sexuality.

Right now, Dean seemed somehow both calm and disconcerted.  I caught him meeting Anne’s eyes, and watched as a silent communication passed between them. Again, there was nothing romantic about it. It was more like the sympathy between two soldiers who had been wounded in the same battle.

He broke off from their bonding moment and turned to me. “I need cholesterol. Let’s get everyone to a diner.”

 

~*~

 

I thought Anne would need some convincing before climbing into the Impala. I was wrong. I was in the middle of trying to explain the concept of motor vehicles to her when Dean turned on the lights in the bunker’s garage. Anne gasped and then ran down to the car. I think it was love at first sight.

Dean smiled, noting her instant appreciation for the vehicle. I watched him walk down and pat the roof. “Baby’s a beauty, ain’t she?”

“Yes, she is.” Anne peered through the windows at the seats inside.

“More English,” Dean said with approval. “We done with all the French now?”

Sam rolled his eyes as he reached the other side of the Impala and leaned up against it. “A little less pressure, maybe?”

“Yeah, Dean.” Charlie folded her arms over her chest as she walked by my side. “Give her a chance to get comfortable with our accents and expressions.”

Anne shot Dean a look of triumph at this show of support. Dean looked to me for back-up, but I had nothing but a half-hearted shrug to offer him.

He treated me to a glare that was somehow both playful and exasperated. “Thanks, Cas. Nice to know you’re on my side.” Then he turned back to Anne. “Come here—I’ll show you how she works.”

Dean walked around to the hood and opened it up. He started explaining the engine, sticking to basic things. I listened more intently than I had intended, remembering the time I told Dean that my car had inexplicably stopped. He had walked to it with me, checked it out, and then nodded with an air of long-suffering as he announced that, yup, it was out of gas.

To do him credit, he had never tortured me about that.

Anne, meanwhile, seemed captivated. I’m not sure how much she grasped of either the mechanics of the car or of Dean’s English, but she understood the concept of horsepower—and she was awed at just how much of it Baby was capable of. In fact, I don’t think she believed Dean. She demanded proof. 

Sam laughed. “We can’t drive that fast—we don’t need the police noticing us. But you can ride shotgun, if you want.”

Dean raised his eyebrows at him. “You giving up your spot?”

“Hey!” Charlie looked offended as she glanced back and forth between the brothers. “I never get to ride shotgun! And I’ve been here a lot longer.”

“Don’t complain, kiddo,” Dean said. “Sam’s lucky I let him sit next to me.”

“Shotgun?”  Anne gave us all a bemused look.

I pointed to the seat next to the driver. “Sitting there—that’s shotgun. And I never get to sit there either. So I’m with Charlie on this.”

Charlie nodded darkly. “Dean doesn’t know what exile to the backseat is like.”

“Seriously?” Dean gave her a look.

“Seriously,” she insisted.

Dean shook his head as he dug the keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Sam. “Drive Baby and let Anne ride up front. I’ll hang with these two crybabies in the back.”

“Wait!” Charlie looked outraged. “You sharing our pain doesn’t make our pain better!”

“Ah, Dean,” I put in, “I also don’t understand why Anne gets this honor so soon.”

He grinned. “Because she’s the fucking queen of England—or she was, anyway. That should be worth something.”


	6. Pickles and Police

“Ah, Anne?” Dean asked.

She was sitting across the booth from Dean and me, with Charlie on one side of her and Sam on the other. I watched her take another bite of her sandwich before cocking her head at Dean in acknowledgment. Her first ride in a car had done nothing to impede her appetite.

Dean put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “It’s only a tuna melt. You don’t have to orgasm over it. I mean, come on. It’s not like it’s pie.”

I’m not sure if all those words—never mind his pronunciation—made sense to her, but once again she must have guessed their meaning. She swallowed and informed him, in her antiquated English, that the taste of this ‘melt’ was worthy of an ecstatic response.

Dean leaned back and gestured in defeat. “Well, all right then.”

“You silenced him! Nice.” Charlie held out her fist to Anne for a bump.

Anne complied.

Sam chuckled and glanced across the table at me. “No offense, Cas, but I think Anne learns faster than you.”

Dean nodded and spoke through a fresh mouthful of burger. “Yeah, just a bit.”

“She has an advantage,” I pointed out. “She is human—she’s not trying to learn the customs of an entirely different species.”

Dean dug his elbow into my vessel’s ribs. “Sore loser.”

“Let’s talk about the case.” Charlie put down her veggie wrap. “That hotel room? It was rented by a dummy corporation. So far, no real leads to who or what is behind it—just dead ends. But I’m still digging.”

Dean shot me a questioning glance.

It was time then—time for me to tell everything I knew. “I have a connection to both Anne and the Jefferson Hotel. I heard Anne praying on the night of her execution—just as I had heard her brother praying two nights earlier. I revealed myself to both of them.”

“And they both had the mystic mojo to see you,” Sam said. “Did you know that ahead of time?”

“Yes. Well, I sensed it from the strength and fervor of their prayers. I made certain before I risked blinding them, though.” I paused. “They, um, could discern my voice.”

“Unlike some of us,” Dean muttered.

I glanced at him. He really did sound jealous.

“Ah, anyway,” I continued, “Balthazar and I used to meet at the Jefferson Hotel.”

“Why?” Sam reached across Anne and stole one of Charlie’s zucchini fries.

Anne, watching that with interest, decided to take the pickle off of Sam’s plate.

“Why that place? No reason I know of.” I answered. “He just liked the lobby there. We would discuss our plans to defeat Raphael. But I’ve been thinking—he knew of my connection to the Boleyns. He was one of the few who did.”

Sam stopped eating and just stared at me. “Cas . . . do you want to tell us what happened to Balthazar?”

“Let’s shelve that conversation for now.” Dean looked across at his brother. “Please?”

Sam peered at me, his eyes digging deep. So he, too, must have guessed the truth.

I swallowed and tried, by my expression, to convey the fact that I recognized my guilt and accepted it. That if I could change what I had done—all those things I had done—I would.

At length, Sam nodded. “Okay.”

Anne looked from one of us to the other. “Okay,” she repeated, testing it again.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Is that your new favorite word?”

“It is, yes. Okay?” She reached over to take his pickle as well.

Dean defended the pickle—just on general principle, I think—by moving it out of her reach.

Anne made a face, but settled for stealing an onion ring from him instead.

Charlie and Sam exchanged glances. Then both of them smiled. I suppose that meant the mood had lightened again. But sooner or later, I knew there would be a conversation. And a reckoning.

“Okay,” Sam said. “So Anne gets resurrected from the dead and shows up at a hotel that Cas and Balthazar used to meet at.” He shifted a little so that he was half facing her. “Anne, what do you remember about coming back? Did it happen in that room?”

“Yes.” She scrunched up her brow, as if trying to recall every detail. Then she lapsed back into French as she retold it.

“She remembers her execution,” I began. “She remembers the speech she gave and how she followed protocol. She says she was grateful that Henry had commuted the sentence from burning to beheading. And that he had obtained an expert swordsman from France, rather than allowing her to die by the ax in the English style.” I paused. “She put an ironic inflection in some of her words.”

“Yeah, we got that,” Dean said.

“Right. A nice, friendly psychopath,” Sam added. “If you’re going to frame your wife for adultery, incest and treason, you can at least make her death as painless as possible.”

There was a coldness in his voice that Dean and I—and probably Charlie—were familiar with. Sam was a master of icy anger. But Anne hadn’t seen that side of him yet. She turned toward him with a speculative look, as if she were reappraising him.

I don’t think he lost any esteem in her eyes. In fact, she placed a hand over his, apparently thanking him for his anger on her behalf.

“So, ah, French swordsman.” Dean broke the sudden silence that had fallen. “You got a thing for France, huh?”

“She spent most of her formative years abroad, steeped in French culture,” I explained. “Anyway, she remembers the way this executioner tricked her into looking away before the sword sliced into her, uh, little neck.”

Anne pointed at her little neck.

Dean squinted. “It’s more long and slender—you’ve got a Gwyneth Paltrow thing going.”

Sam gave his brother a look. “I think by little she meant easy to slice through.”

“Gwyneth Paltrow?” Anne asked.

“That’s a compliment.” Charlie pulled out her phone. “Here, let me show you.”

For a few minutes Anne was captivated by this device that was like a miniature version of the laptop she’d seen earlier. Dean grunted with impatience, but Sam shushed him.

Anne bestowed a grateful smile on Sam, but reluctantly pushed the phone away. She proceeded in French.

“Despite the trick, she was aware of the blow,” I continued translating. “Then she remembers nothing but a vague sense of peace. And of rest.”

“Lucky,” Dean murmured.

“Then a flash of light erupted—like lightning, she says—and suddenly she was in that hotel room.”

“Alone?” Sam asked.

I shook my head. “Someone was holding her face down on the bed. He—Anne thinks the person was male—didn’t rape her or seriously hurt her. But she lost consciousness. When she woke up again, she was by herself on the bed, hands tied behind her back and a gag in her mouth. Her legs were wobbly but she made it to the vase. She broke it to cut through the ropes and then—”

“Cried out to you,” Dean finished.

I nodded.

We all mulled over her words.

“I’m still liking an angel for this,” Dean said.

“What, he raised her from the dead and then tied her up and abandoned her? Must be a dick angel.” Sam frowned. “Unless it’s an angel who just wants Cas’s attention. Goes to a place where he used to meet with Balthazar, and raises up an old favorite human of his. A really famous human.”

“But is that how it works?” Charlie stared at me. “Can an angel just raise anyone up from the dead?”

“That’s . . . a complicated question.” I thought for a moment before continuing. “In theory, I can raise any human. But in practice, it’s much more difficult. For one thing, there’s always a price to pay. It can be staggeringly high—and not only for the angel. I, um—”

“You what?” Sam’s voice was gentle but insistent.

“I wanted to bring back Bobby. It was simple the first time—right after your showdown with Lucifer and Michael, I mean. His death felt out of season. But if I raised him now, I would be tearing into the fabric of the natural order, and probably going against God’s will.”

Dean snorted. “Assuming God gives a damn about anything or anyone down here.”

I nodded. “Yes, assuming that.”

“Against the natural order and God’s will—is that because of the length of time since he died?” Charlie asked.

I shook my head. “Actually, no. Right now, Bobby has completed his purpose here. That’s what matters. But if he hadn’t, I would be able to raise him easily, either now or, well, four hundred years from now.”

Anne peered into my eyes from across the table. She must have followed enough of our conversation—she was, as everyone already realized, a quick study. “Have I purpose here?”

An honest answer would have to serve. “I don’t know.”

She took a deep breath and then nodded. Then she spoke to me in French, indicating that I should translate.

“She says she doesn’t understand everything we were discussing. But she only wishes to be here if it’s God’s will—if God has some purpose for her. She says she died once, and she’s not afraid to die again.”

Sam gazed down at her, his admiration obvious. “That’s—I’m glad this is all out in the open, Anne. And that you can handle it.”

She nodded prettily at him, but then gave Dean a withering glance before proceeding in French again.

Dean turned to me. “What was that about?”

“She wants to know how a good, holy man like you—with me for a guardian—can possibly doubt that God cares about what happens down here. But she begs your forgiveness if she misconstrued your words.”

He grunted. “Oh, she construed them just fine. Tell her that God and me are not on the best of terms.”

I did so.

Anne considered Dean’s answer before responding.

“Well?” Dean asked me.

I raised my eyebrows at him. “She says she knows her Bible. Good people—holy people—sometimes wrestle with God.”

Charlie smiled. “Aw, see Dean? You’re still good and holy.”

“Oh yeah. That’s me.” He rolled his eyes. Then he stood up and threw some cash down on the table. “Let’s get going.”

But I grabbed his arm. “Wait.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Another prayer—his voice is filling my head. He’s confused and tired of being questioned by commoners in words he doesn’t understand.”

Dean put his hand over mine. “You have to slow down, buddy. Whose prayer? Who’s calling on you?”

I stared across the table at Anne. “It’s George. George Boleyn. Your brother.”

 

~*~

 

“Newark, New Jersey.” Sam shook his head. “Why Newark?”

“I don’t know.” I straightened my tie as we walked down the crowded block, snatches of Portuguese trailing in our wake.

Sam and I had a simple mission: walk into the Ironbound District Police Station—Charlie said it was the 3rd Precinct—and retrieve George. Unfortunately, George didn’t know Sam and he wouldn’t recognize me in this vessel. And I couldn’t reveal myself in the middle of the station.

I followed Sam inside, watching him take note of our surroundings. There were a number of officers milling around. There were civilians there too. Some seemed to be waiting impatiently for something or someone. Others moved about with purpose. Most spoke in English, but I heard more Portuguese and some Spanish as well.

“Do you see him?” Sam asked.

“No—wait! There he is.”

Sam followed my line of sight. George was sitting stiffly on a bench, dressed as he had been for his execution. Since his clothing had gone out of fashion in the 1530s, he looked a bit out of place.

“Look at him.” Sam stared. “I can see the resemblance to Anne—and not just because of the clothes. It’s in his eyes, the way he sits . . . .”

“Yes.” He also had the same sharp, intelligent expression that Anne often wore. He was arguably better looking than his sister, in fact—except that he couldn’t quite match her charm. 

Sam’s face broke into a big smile as he walked over to him. “George! Thank God. Are you all right, man?”

He raised his eyebrows at Sam, somehow managing to convey both confusion and disdain. George was either unable or unwilling to disguise the haughtiness that was his trademark.

I followed Sam and then crouched down so that George and I were eye level. “I know you don’t recognize me, George, but you know me. And I know you’re confused, but we can convey you to your sister.”

He blinked, probably at the oddness of my English. And then at my message. “My sister!”

“Yes. Anne. _Ainsi sera, groigne qui groigne_.”

His eyes lit up at the motto Anne had once used—albeit only for a few weeks. Loosely translated, it meant ‘Grumble all you like, this is how it’s going to be.’

“Thank you so much for finding him, Officer,” Sam was saying behind us. “We knew my cousin went off his meds. We’ve been so worried.”

“No problem. He was wandering around like that through Branch Brook Park. What’s with the costume?”

“Oh, he’s all into Renaissance Fairs.”

I stood up slowly, the officer’s words ringing in my ears.

George stood up too, eyeing me with concern.

“So, is there anything I need to sign?” Sam was asking.

“Right this way,” the officer answered. “Then you’re free to go.”

I should have relaxed. Everything had gone smoothly—but I was scarcely paying attention. Branch Brook Park, the officer had said. Of course.


	7. The Rules

We did not bring George directly to his sister. Dean had given us our marching orders in advance: bring him to the cellars where he would put George through all the same tests that Anne had undergone.

“And that includes you revealing yourself,” Dean added now.

“Are you sure, Dean?” Sam asked. “We just did the whole silver-salt-iron-holy-water thing.”

“I want to make sure that he is who he says he is. The real George Boleyn could see Cas in his true form.”

George, who had been staring down at the knife cut on his arm, glanced up at that.

Dean sighed and turned to me. “Does he know your name?”

“No.” I gave him an apologetic look. “He and his sister were content to know that I was an angel of the Lord.”

George’s eyes widened. “You?”

I nodded. “Yes. I’m the angel who came to strengthen you that night. My name is Castiel.” I turned back to the Winchesters. “Sam and Dean, I need you to—”

“Kneel down, avert our eyes and shut them tight,” Dean finished for me. “We’re on it.”

I waited till they had both complied. George had almost the same reaction as his sister to the fiery, winged, monstrous creature that was my real form: relief mixed with gratitude.

Once Dean was back on his feet, however, he stopped George from any hand kissing.

“Come on,” he said instead. “Let’s get you to your sister.”

 

~*~

 

“Wow.” Charlie lowered her voice as she twirled a strand of her improbably red hair. “They do look a little Lannister, hugging that tight.”

“Charlie! Not now.”

She glanced up at Sam, raising her eyebrows at his icy, angry tone. Then she managed a contrite expression. “Sorry.”

I glanced across the research room. The hug between the siblings did look a little compromising. And it was going on and on. Anne was pressed against George, who had one hand clasped to the small of her back and the other to the back of her head. He was stroking her hair, and they were both quaking. Perhaps they were overwhelmed just to be near one another again.  

Charlie was back to staring at them. “Do you think they were allowed to talk or anything before their executions?”

“No. From what I’ve been reading, they were kept in separate chambers,” Sam answered. “But maybe Anne could see George and the other guys—their whole circle of friends—beheaded. I think it happened right outside the Tower.”

Dean grunted. “Nice. Prince of a guy, this Henry. Stop staring, Charlie.”

“In fairness,” Sam said slowly, “Anne and George weren’t the nicest people ever. I don’t think anyone at that court could afford to be.”

Charlie nodded. “ ** _Game of Thrones_** for real.”

Dean took a gulp of his beer. “I think they lost.”

“No, they didn’t.” Sam sounded icy again. And adamant.

Charlie and Dean gave him a look.

But I knew what Sam meant. “He’s right,” I said. “They may have lost their heads, but they didn’t lose the—the game, if that’s what you want to call it.”

“Yeah.” Sam cleared his throat. “Anne’s daughter Elizabeth survived and ended up on the throne. And she was one of the most successful English monarchs ever. Plus, Anne and George helped usher in the Protestant Reformation in England. I mean, you might think that’s good or bad, depending—”

“Can’t say I really have an opinion on it,” Dean snarked.

“But it stuck,” Sam continued, “Even after their deaths.”

“Huh.” Dean took another gulp. “Well, nice to fulfill your goals, I guess.”

“It counts for something.” Sam shrugged. “So where should we put George? We have plenty of room, but we’ll need to rearrange things. I guess he can share with me for now.”

Dean considered that. “No, give him the room that Cas was using. Cas can bunk with me.”

Charlie and Sam exchanged glances.

“Uh, is that okay with you, Cas?” Sam asked.

“It’s fine,” I answered. “I don’t require a room at all. Nor do I require sleep.”

“Well, you got a few things, right?” Dean put his bottle down. “Let’s go move them before we stash George in there.”

He walked off, but Charlie grabbed me before I could follow.

“Cas?” she asked. “Do you have anything you want to tell us?”

I blinked. “About the case? Yes, there are things we need to discuss. But let’s wait for Dean—”

“No,” Sam interrupted. “Not about the case.”

“Then what?” The light dawned. “Oh. About me bunking with Dean?”

“Right.” Charlie gave me an encouraging smile.

“Ah, don’t read anything into that. Dean is simply . . . less opposed than he used to be to an angel watching over him at night.”

Charlie just sighed and let go of my arm.

Sam, meanwhile, was rolling his eyes. “Right. No mixed messages there. Way to go, Dean.”

“I, uh—” I broke off, looking back and forth between them. “I think I’ll go get my things now.”

 

~*~

 

Moving my things—just a couple of books and a few articles of clothing—did not take much time. Nor did the items take up much space in Dean’s room.

“There.” He set the last of my books down on a makeshift shelf. “All finished.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

He turned to face me. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” The way I was standing there awkwardly might have belied my words, so I decided to clarify. “Mostly fine. I’m confused about something.”

“Yeah?” He leaned back against the wall. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know the rules anymore, Dean.”

“What rules?”

I dug my hands into the pockets of my trench coat. “The rules you taught me about respecting your personal space. About—about when it’s all right to put a hand on your shoulder or hug you. Not that I was ever clear about any of that, but . . .” I shrugged as I let my voice trail off.

“Oh.” His face reddened. I seemed to have that effect on him quite a bit lately. “Look, they’re not rules I can just write down for you.”

“Sam thinks you’re sending me mixed messages. Regarding issues like this, I believe.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah? Well, the first rule is not to listen to Sam. Not on this stuff.” He paused, shaking his head. “Look, it’s just—you’re sure you’re not pining for me, right? You’re not imagining us fucking like a pair of gay rabbits?”

“I, uh—no? What do rabbits have to do with this, Dean?”

He bit back a grin. “Nothing. But you’re sure you’re okay with us as we are?”

“Yes. I don’t require fucking.”

“Okay, then.” He took a step forward and drew me into a hug. “Then we’re good.”

I put my arms around him. And, since he didn’t object, I tightened my hold.

He still didn’t object. In fact, I think he relaxed. At least a bit.

“So  . . . this is allowed?” I asked.

“Yeah, this is fine. Just don’t go anywhere, okay?” He broke away from me. “Don’t wing off on me. At least not without telling me. And not without telling me when you’ll be back. Just . . . just stay here as much as you can.”

“I have no plans to leave. And I’ll tell you at once if that changes.”

“Good.” He looked straight into my eyes. “I want you around, okay? You can get into my personal space. You can sleep right next to me, if you want. Or, well, read or whatever, since you don’t sleep. Just—whatever you do, don’t leave. Not now.”

I looked long and hard into his eyes—eyes that should have been hazel, but were really a tougher, grittier green. He was speaking the truth. And he wasn’t possessed or otherwise impaired.  Dean really wanted me here. Even in his personal space.

“Well?” he prompted.

“I, uh—I like these new rules, Dean. They’re less . . . complicated.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“And maybe I really am here to perch on your shoulder.”

“I hope so, Cas.” His face grew serious. “And, right now, I don’t care how selfish of me that is.”

“Well, anyway, it doesn’t matter.” I dug my hands back into my coat. “This is where I belong.”


	8. Little White Lies

“Seriously.” Charlie lowered her voice to a whisper. “Anne and George have been alone in her room forever. Do you think they’re having sex?”

“No,” Sam and I said in unison.

But Dean leaned back in his chair and gave a shrug that said he could go either way on this. “Maybe.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “They’re too religious. They’re old school—and I mean real old school—Christians.”

Charlie scoffed. “So? That research we did says that George still cheated on his wife. Probably with a whole bunch of women.”

“Those were contemporary rumors from his enemies,” Sam pointed out. “Maybe they’re true, maybe they’re not, but they still don’t mean he slept with his sister. Remember, Cas says they were innocent.”

“So does most of the history I’ve read.” Charlie sounded vaguely disappointed.

“Exactly.” Sam paused. “And even if they’re starting something now—which they’re not—well, we agreed it’s none of our business, right?”

Dean shrugged again. “It’s fucked up, but they’re adults. I’m not stopping them.”

I cleared my throat. “May I change the subject?”

“Please,” Sam said.

“What’s on your mind, Cas?” Dean asked.

“The police found George wandering around Branch Brook Park in Newark. That’s another place Balthazar and I used to meet.”

There was a long moment of silence as that sunk in.

Charlie frowned. “Why that park?”

“I liked the cherry blossoms.”

“You and trees,” Dean muttered.

“All right,” Sam said. “So if an angel raised Anne and George—well, it’s definitely an angel who wants Castiel’s attention.”

Charlie was keeping conspicuously quiet. I had no idea how much she knew or didn’t know about Balthazar. Or about the sins I committed back when I . . . overreached. But if she didn’t know already, she would soon. The time had come for that conversation, even if Dean wanted to keep avoiding it.

But Dean also seemed to realize that it was time. He rubbed the back of his neck and then shifted to look me in the eyes. “Did you kill Balthazar? Or have him killed?”

“I killed him myself.” I knew there was almost no emotion in my voice. But not because I didn’t feel any. I had to keep it battened down. If I let any of it show, I was afraid my vessel would crack.

“You found out he was helping us, didn’t you?” Sam’s eyes held a curious sympathy as he, too, stared straight at me. “He was helping us try to stop you.”

I sucked in all the air my vessel could hold. “You were right to try to stop me. He was right to help you. I know that now. But back then—well, I was deluding myself.”

Charlie opened her mouth, but abruptly shut it again. I had no idea what she was thinking.

“So . . . what do we think is going on?” Sam asked. “Is some angel trying to remind you of what you did to Balthazar?”

“But Anne and George don’t have anything to do with that,” Dean pointed out. “This was all way after their time.”

Charlie finally spoke up. “Um, did this Balthazar—he was an angel, right?—have anything to do with Anne or George?”

“Not that I know of,” I answered. ‘But Balthazar knew that I had heard their prayers and did my best to comfort and strengthen them before their executions.”

Charlie started twirling her hair again. “Which angels knew the places where you and Balthazar would meet up?”

“None,” I said. “I never revealed those meetings to anyone. I doubt Balthazar did either.”

Sam furrowed his brow. “Well, say some angel did know. Is there some revenge angle here? Remind you of what you did to Balthazar? Then bring back two humans you liked and hope you’re forced to put them back to rest?”

“I don’t think that’s it.” Dean made a face. “Seems like there’d be easier ways to go after Cas.”

I folded my hands on the table and stared intently at them. “If there is an angel bent on revenge—well, Anne and George don’t deserve their wrath. This was my sin.”

“A sin you already paid for,” Dean said.

I looked up at him. “I destroyed him, Dean. He was my friend and brother and I destroyed him. How can I ever pay for that?”

He put a hand on my shoulder. “Listen to me. You tried to set things right—and you ended up dying for it. And when God brought you back, you—you paid a high price to heal Sammy. And then you punished yourself with that whole Purgatory thing. How much more can this angel expect you to suffer?”

“But—”

“No buts.” Dean shook his head. “Cas, at some point you’re going to have to get over this masochistic thing of yours.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Besides, even at your worst, you were trying to do the right thing.”

I managed a small smile at that. I was grateful for their support, even if I felt no sense of absolution. “I don’t know what the right thing is anymore. And I have no idea, right now, what to do about Anne and George.”

“Until we’ve got a reason to think otherwise, we treat them like they’re meant to be here.” Dean’s voice was firm as he released my arm. “For all we know, they still have a purpose, right?”

“I agree,” Sam said. “But what makes me nervous is that they’ve accomplished so much already. Like, history changing stuff. If they are here for a reason, how much more does God want from them?”

Charlie smirked as she looked from one Winchester to the other. “Seems like we could ask God the same thing about you two.”

 

~*~

 

Dean shivered a little as he buttoned up his jacket. “It’s colder than I thought here. Darker too—I forgot about the time zone difference.”

I nodded as I looked around Branch Brook Park. Night had already fallen here, though the city lights were enough for a human to see by. We had landed on the eastern side of the park, near the Forest Hill section of Newark. Sacred Heart Cathedral loomed over us.

Dean stared up at the church. “You know, if we’re looking for an angel—or traces of an angel—that might be where we want to start.”

“Good idea.”

It was only a short walk to the cathedral—which was full of life at the moment . . . complete with a number of people in yarmulkes.

Dean checked himself at the narthex. “Um, okay. I don’t know if I’ve ever been inside a church that was this Jewish.”

I picked up a flyer. “There’s a special Jewish-Christian Interfaith program tonight.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not taking place in the sanctuary, so we should be free to look around.” I walked inside as I spoke. There were a few police officers stationed about, but no metal detectors, so Dean followed in my wake. The weapons he carried remained hidden.

We strode a little ways down the center aisle of the nave. No one stopped us as we slid into a pew.

Dean pushed the kneeler down with his foot, put his hands on the pew in front of him and leaned forward in that almost-kneeling-but-not-really way. It made him look like a cradle Catholic, though I don't think he had ever identified with a particular branch of Christianity. All the religious rituals he knew, he knew by rote. They didn't hold any meaning for him beyond their practical effects in the art of hunting.

Still, he must have been thinking along religious lines—I suppose the cathedral inspired that—because he peered at me with a curious expression, as if a new thought had occurred to him. "So are you more a Jewish angel or a Christian angel? Or—Muslims have angels, right? Or are you something else?

"What?” I cocked my head at him, confused. "The religious categories of humans don't apply to angels."

He considered that. "So, if an angel brought Anne and George back, it wouldn't be a religious thing?"

I still must have looked confused, because he tried again to explain.

"I mean, it wouldn't be because the angel was favoring one, uh, branch of a religion over another."

Now I understood what he was getting at. "You mean Protestantism over Catholicism, in Anne and George's case."

"Right." Dean stared ahead at the altar. "That was a big deal back in their day, right? Protestant versus Catholic?"

I grunted at the understatement. "Yes. Religion wasn't a private concern back then. It affected the fate of nations. So people lost their heads over it or were burned at the stake." 

Dean rolled his eyes at the sheer stupidity of that. "Well, Sam said that Anne and George helped—how did he put it? Usher in the Protestant Reformation in England."

"They did. They were committed reformers." I paused and then shook my head. "Dean, I can't imagine an angel taking sides in that battle. We helped those who were worthy or chosen in either camp. And, anyway, who would care now?"

"Yeah, not so big a deal anymore." He sighed. "I don't know. It was just a thought."

"I think we have to assume that this case is about me. About punishing me for what I did to Balthazar.”

I expected Dean to scoff at my supposed masochism again, but he looked thoughtful instead. “You know what I wonder about those days? The days of you playing God, I mean. And the time leading up to it.”

My vessel’s stomach tightened. There were any number of grievances he could bring up. “What?”

He turned his head a little, so he could look me in the eyes. “You said that Bobby made mistakes with those angel wards we put up against you. But he was damned careful. So how’d you get in?”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean.”

“Cas, are you really going to lie to me about this now? You’re going to break one of the Ten Commandments right here in a church?”

“Dean, none of the Ten Commandments mention lying in general.”

“What?” He clearly didn’t believe me. “Get out of here, man. Did you ever read them?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes. Did you?”

He looked offended. “Yes. Um, I mean, probably. At some point.”

“Well, the commandment you’re thinking of forbids bearing false witness against your neighbor. Lying to make them seem guilty of some crime, for example.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No.”

“So wait. Any other kinds of lies are up for grabs?”

“Depends on who you ask. There’s a Talmudic principle that some lies are allowed in order to preserve the peace in your household.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, suppose your spouse asks if a particular article of clothing makes them look fat.”

Dean grinned. “Yeah, I don’t need the Talmud to tell me that a lie there gets a pass. And I don’t care what any religion says: you don’t get to lie when you’re looking me right in the face. Now, did Bobby screw up the angel wards?”

He was right. I couldn’t lie to him. Not like this. “No.”

“So how did you wing in that night, Cas? How’d you manage your creepy ‘I’m-going-to-watch-you-sleep’ act?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I thought I was allowed to watch over you while you sleep now. But you still think it’s creepy?”

Dean let out a frustrated sound as he leaned back in the pew and kicked up the kneeler. The noise reverberated throughout the massive sanctuary, so he lowered his voice. “You are. And no, it’s not creepy because—well, you’re an angel. My angel. Now stop avoiding the question.”

His angel. Those words echoed in my essence as I tried to force my vessel to speak. But I didn’t want to discomfort Dean. Or, worse, disappoint him.

“Cas, it’s that profound bond between us. Isn’t it?”

So he had figured it out. I couldn’t tell if he thought this answer was a good or bad thing. Both his face and his soul seemed stringently neutral.

“Cas?”

“Yes. Bobby’s wards were correct—I lied about that. It was difficult for me to break through them, but our bond is stronger than any wards. I believe that your soul truly is my responsibility, Dean.”

“Well, you abused our bond that night, dude.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Stop.” Dean looked away for a moment, back at the altar, but then turned back to me. His voice was even lower as he continued. “We’ve both fucked up. I don’t want to spend the rest of our lives apologizing.”

“Um, okay.” I took a breath. “Are you upset about the wards?”

“That they don’t work on you? No. But you can also find me anywhere. Despite whatever the hell you carved into mine and Sammy’s ribs. You know, to let us fly below the angel radar.”

I kept silent.

“Come on, Cas. You can, can’t you? Remember when Sam and I were at that old church with Crowley locked up inside? We didn’t tell you where we were, but you winged your way right to me.”

“It—it’s difficult, Dean. I can’t always find you. But I was highly motivated at that moment.”

“And it worked why? Because of our profound bond?”

“Yes. But don’t rely on that. It’s better that you just tell me where you are.”

“Can you find Sam?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He still didn’t look upset, but he straightened up and then changed the subject. “So, back to the case. You feel anything here? Any trace of angel mojo?”

“No. Nothing—wait.”

“What?”

“Maybe I’m looking in the wrong place.” I stood up, slid out of the pew and walked further down the center aisle.

Dean was right behind me. “Where are we going?”

I kept walking. “To the Chapel of St. Anne.”


	9. English Lessons

Dean looked around the small chapel. “So I’m thinking ‘St. Anne’ doesn’t refer to Anne Boleyn.”

“No.” My eyes were searching the area as well.

“Good.” Dean folded his arms across his chest. “I mean, I like her. And I get that she accomplished a lot. But she’s no fricking saint.”

“You don’t want her, do you?” I managed to state that in a monotone voice, making sure no trace of emotion slipped into my vessel’s voice.

He smiled a little. “No. Not like that.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He blew air. “I mean, as a one night stand? Sure. But it wouldn't end there. And I know her type, trust me. The fights would be epic. And so would the angry sex, I guess, but I don’t want a whole relationship based on that.”

I smiled and allowed a little bit of emotion into my voice. “I’m glad to hear you say that. I like Anne too, but I don’t think you two would be compatible.”

“No, we wouldn’t be—hey, what’s that?”

I followed his finger. There was a rolled-up parchment tucked beneath the statue of St. Anne. Dean withdrew it and opened it.

“Enochian script.” He handed it to me. “What’s it say? Can you tell who wrote it?”

I stared at the symbols. “That’s not ink or blood. This is a message from another angel.” I closed my eyes, hoping to catch some whiff of that angel’s essence. “But I don’t know which.”

“So what’s it say, Cas?”

I rolled the parchment back up and tucked it into a pocket of my coat. “It says ‘You’re welcome.’”

 

~*~

 

 

We found everyone gathered in Sam’s room when we returned to the bunker, eyes glued to his TV screen. _**The Fellowship of the Rings**_ was playing. I was a little proud, because it’s one of the few films I recognize at a glance . . . a fact that won me some favor from Charlie.

Sam and Anne were sitting next to each other, cross-legged, on the bed. Each had a bottle of beer in hand, plus they were passing a bag of popcorn back and forth. George and Charlie were sitting on the floor, leaning back against the bed with their legs stretched out in front of them, with more beer and more popcorn.

Both Boleyns seemed riveted by the film. But I couldn’t tell if they were enchanted by the story or just amazed that such a thing as movies existed.

Charlie, meanwhile, had been explaining something about the Nazgûl, but she broke off at the sight of us. “Hey. We’re helping Anne and George catch up with current English.”

Dean leaned up against the door frame and raised his eyebrows. “By watching _**The Lord of the Rings**_? How often do you think they’re going to have to talk about Ringraiths?”

She gave him a look. “They’re hanging out with hunters. They'll have to talk about all sorts of weird things.”

Dean thought that over. ‘Huh. Good point.”

Sam chuckled. “They’re making progress. I mean, they have a ways to go, but—”

“Yes, but.” George snorted. “Mine excuse is—”

“My excuse,” Sam and Charlie corrected in unison.

The Boleyns both made a face.

“That sounds so wrong!” Anne complained.

Dean and I exchanged glances. She was mimicking an American of this age almost perfectly.

“It does.” George didn’t bother to hide his contempt for this butchery of the English language. “My excuse? Really?”

“Really,” Sam confirmed. “Though I get why you used ‘mine’ in front of a noun starting with a vowel.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of classy.” Charlie looked at Dean and me. “So you guys want to join us? There’s plenty of popcorn. Or—oh. Did you find out anything more about the case?”

“We’re more certain that an angel resurrected Anne and George,” I said. “They left a parchment at Sacred Heart Cathedral, near the park where the police found George wandering.”

Sam swallowed a mouthful of popcorn. “He doesn’t know how he got there.”

“I remember little concerning this resurrection of mine,” George added, apparently taking care with both his words and his accent. “I remember mine execution—”

“My execution,” everyone else corrected.

He rolled his eyes. “My execution. But little else.”

“Well, the parchment said ‘you’re welcome’ in Enochian,” Dean explained. “Cas is pretty sure it was written by an angel.”

“You’re welcome?” Sam furrowed his brow. “You’re welcome for what? Resurrecting two humans that Cas liked?”

Dean shrugged. “I guess.”

Charlie looked thoughtful. “Well, I’ve got more news about the dummy corporation that rented the hotel room you found Anne in.”

“Yeah? What?”

“I’m not sure how to explain it, but the cover-up for this dummy is both really thorough and really shoddy at the same time. Like someone knew they had to cover their tracks—and were really capable of it—but only sort of knew how corporations and stuff work.”

Dean grunted. “So like, for instance, an angel who doesn’t get all things human?”

“That would fit,” Charlie admitted.

George cleared his throat and elbowed Charlie.

She stared at him, confused—but then the light seemed to dawn. “Oh.” Charlie blushed. “Anne and George said they weren’t sleeping together before in Anne’s room.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at her. “What, they just volunteered that?”

Charlie cringed. “I might have sort of asked. Anyway, they want to make sure you two know that nothing happened.”

“Nothing happened,” Anne repeated.

“No. We’re not—” George broke off. “We have both sinned, but we’re not—we’re not so far gone? Is that what I want to say?”

Sam looked impressed. “Yeah. You’re sounding better and better, George. You both are.”

Charlie let out an overly dramatic sigh. “I apologized for my assumptions.”

“Well, uh, nice to know you’re not banging your sister.” Dean wore an expression that suggested maybe congratulations were in order.

George smiled despite himself. “Thank you.”

“So are you two just going to stand there by the door all day?” Charlie asked us. “Or are you going to sit down and watch the movie?”

Dean shot me a questioning look.

I shrugged in return; I didn’t mind either way.

“Nah,” Dean answered. “It’s been a long day. Me and mine angel are going to go rest up.”


	10. Stiff as a Board

Dean shut his door as soon as we entered his room and then started stripping down to his t-shirt and his boxer briefs. I felt suddenly overdressed, so I followed his lead, folding my discarded clothing carefully as I went. Dean left his in a messy pile. I decided to fix that.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Clean up my messes.” He paused to snort. “Well, not unless I cause an apocalypse or something.”

I smiled at that as I finished. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He pulled the covers down on one side of the bed—what I supposed was now his side—and climbed under them. I stood there for a moment, staring at the other side. This was different from last night, when we had both stayed on top of the covers in our clothing.

But Dean didn’t act like it was different. He just yawned and gave me a look. “You coming to bed?”

“Yes.” And I walked over to my side and climbed under the blankets, pretending it was the most natural thing in the world.

But it didn’t feel natural. I was lying there—I believe the expression is ‘stiff as a board’—while Dean was on his side, facing away from me. There was as large a space between us as we could manage.

Dean noticed the problem. He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Cas, man, you got to relax.”

"I am."

"No, you're not."

I sighed. “I’m trying, Dean, but it’s difficult."

"Look, I get that you don't sleep. Stay up and read if you want."

"It's not that."

He let out an exasperated sigh of his own. "Then what is it, Cas?"

"I don’t wish to discomfort you. And I don’t—I don’t understand exactly what’s going on. Why you want me here each night.”

“Do you want to be here?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in my voice.

“So then relax and—and let’s just go with this platonic thing, okay?”

“Okay.” But I paused, unable to force myself to relax. Even on his orders.

“Jesus,” he muttered. Then he rolled over and started to rearrange me. I didn’t fight him—and I ended up lying on my side with my back to his chest. He left one arm loosely hanging over me.

I believe this was called spooning. It was . . . pleasant. Very pleasant.

“Better?” Dean asked.

“Yes. I like this.”

He must have heard the uncertainty in my voice. “But?”

“But, Dean, it would help to know why you suddenly wish for such, ah, closeness between us.”

He sighed, his breath hot against my neck. “Fucking midlife crisis, probably.”

“What? How is this a midlife crisis?”

“Cas, this is going to sound weird, okay? So just bear with me.”

“All right.”

“So, for a while now I’ve known that I was never going to try for another long term relationship. You know how things ended between me and Lisa. I miss her, I miss helping her raise Ben—but I can’t go back now.”

I knew all the circumstances that led to his break up with Lisa, so I didn’t question him further. “Okay. But why do you think you won’t have another long term relationship? You had found a measure of peace with Lisa.”

“I just know, okay? That’s not the life for a hunter—and I’ll always be a hunter.” He fell silent for a moment. “But I miss that life. I miss having someone beside me at night, you know? Not just for sex. I miss having someone to talk to, someone to wake up next to.”

I thought about his words. “You had that with Sam, I think. When you two were spending your life in hotel rooms. I mean, separate beds, but—”

“Exactly. But we don’t share a room here at the bunker, and I can’t ask him to. Hell, for a while I didn’t want to. I was thrilled to have my own room. But now . . . now I miss the companionship.”

“And so I’m the substitute for Sam and Lisa? I can talk with you at night like Sam did and sleep next to you like Lisa did?”

He chuckled. “Something like that. But you’re not just a substitute. You’re the angel who raised me from perdition, remember? And you’re the friend who kept coming back. You came back after I screwed up. You came back after you screwed up. Hell, you came back even after I threw you out.”

I smiled at that. And I could feel his smile as well.

“Dean, when did you decide all this?”

“Like I said, a while ago. And, honestly, I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while.”

“Why did you wait?”

“I had to know that you didn’t want something I couldn’t give you.” He sighed. “Look, I know Sammy thinks I’m secretly bi and that I just have all these issues. But that’s not it. And even if it were, it doesn’t change anything. You have to be good with us being platonic.”

I shifted a little, settling his arm more comfortably on top of me. “I’m good with that, Dean. I’m good with whatever level of intimacy you can handle.”

“I can handle?” He laughed a little. “Well, this is what I can handle.”

“And that’s fine. But Dean—you haven’t sworn off sex, have you?”

“Hell no. I’ll still be looking for random hook ups. And, hey, I know how to clean my own pipes, so don’t think I’m going to get all horny with you. That just ain’t going to happen.” He paused as a new thought seemed to strike him. “You’re free to hook up too. I mean, I know you’re not a virgin anymore.”

“No, I’m not.”

“So, we’re good, right? When we’re away from the bunker, you do your thing. I’ll do mine. And you won’t be jealous, right?”

How was I supposed to answer him?

“Cas?”

I thanked my Father that I was turned away from him—that I didn’t have to look him in the face just now. Swearing off jealousy in case he found a life-long mate was one thing. Swearing off jealousy of random hook ups was something else.

“No,” I lied. “I won’t be jealous.”


	11. Inside Out

For a long while that night I just listened to the sound of Dean's steady, deep breaths, catching the pattern of them. He was asleep—peacefully asleep, for a change. Perhaps having someone next to him did make a difference.

His arm was still draped over my side. When I shifted a bit, trying to find the perfect position, he shifted too . . . subconsciously drawing me closer. I raised no objection.

I closed my eyes, staying right where I was, but allowing my awareness to drift around the bunker.

The movie was over, but Anne, George, Charlie and Sam were still gathered in Sam's room. And all four were sitting on his bed now, drinking more beer as they discussed theology and history in a bizarre mix of Tudor and current English. 

Everything else in the bunker was quiet. It was well-warded here, so I hadn't expected otherwise. But then I remembered—there were no wards against angels.

I sat straight up. 

"Hey, what's the matter?" Dean's voice was groggy, but he pushed himself up too. "You okay?"

"Angel wards," I said. "We need them."

"Huh?"

"We are dealing with a potentially hostile angel, and we've done nothing to protect ourselves." 

He turned on a light, rubbed his eyes and then shifted on the bed to face me. "Wait. Just wait. If we put angel wards up—I mean, you can stay? Because of our special bond thing?"

I hesitated. "It would not be easy. But yes. If I remained close to you, I think I could withstand the wards. At least for a while."

"For a while?"

"Whenever the wards expel me, I'll return as soon as I've re-gathered my strength."

Dean shook his head. "No. I need you at full strength, man. So no angel wards."

"But Dean . . ."

"I said no." He paused. "Maybe we'll make—I don't know. Something like a panic room. One place that's warded against angels. I'll run that by Sam. But nothing more than that."

I could tell that there was no use arguing with Dean just now. His mind was made up. I sighed and laid back down.

He turned off the light and followed suit, urging me back into our spooning position. I complied.

We were quiet for a while, but then he sighed and nudged me. "Cas?"

"Yes?"

"Anything we can do to make this bond between us stronger? You know, to help you withstand the wards? Or make it easier to find me whenever?"

"I don't think you appreciate how powerful the bond between us is, Dean. There's nothing more we can do to amplify it."

He grunted. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but, uh, nothing physical, even?"

"Physical?" I frowned. "There is no symbol that will increase the power of our bond—nothing I can brand or tattoo onto our skin or carve into our bones, if that's what you mean."

"That's . . . that's not what I mean."

"Then what?"

"Damn it, Cas, you're going to make me spell it out?"

I rolled my eyes. "Since I have no idea what you have in mind—"

"Fucking, Cas. Would it help if I fucked you?"

My vessel's brain seemed to stutter to a halt. I rolled over to face Dean. “You want to have sexual intercourse with me?”

He turned bright red—I could see that perfectly, despite the darkness. “What? No! Dude, I keep telling you. This is platonic.”

“But you just offered—”

“As a means to an end, Cas. If it will make our bond stronger . . .” He shrugged, still looking mortified. “Whatever.”

It was a sweet offer, I suppose—at least by Dean’s standards.  And maybe this was the only way he could allow himself to give into a bisexual impulse. But I didn't want him on those terms, and it wouldn't help anyway.

"Dean, I raised you from perdition." I placed my hand on his shoulder, right where my hand print had once seared into him. "I kept your soul safe. I cradled it, comforted it and protected it while I rebuilt your body. I know every inch of you, inside and out. Trust me, inter—”

“Don’t keep saying intercourse, man.”

“Fine. Fucking won't make our bond any deeper than it already is." 

He digested that. "You know me inside out," he said at last. "But I don't even know what you really look like. The frigging Boleyns know, but I don't."

"Dean—"

"Why, Cas? Why do Anne and George get to see your true form, but I don't?"

"I don't know. I don’t know why an angel’s true form is visible to certain special people—and blinding to the rest."

He scoffed.

I tightened my grip on him. "Dean, listen. Seeing my true form—that doesn't matter. You know me. You’re the reason I am me.”

Now he just looked confused.

“In the past, when you were displeased with me, you used to say I was a child—a frigging child, if I remember.”

“Yeah. That’s because you were, Cas. And sometimes you still are.”

I released my grip on him, content to trace the spot with my fingertip. “After I rebelled for you—after I chose freedom over peace for you—well, I was like a child. And whatever I am now, whatever I’m growing into . . . that’s because of you.”

He didn’t seem to know what to say to that. “Are you sorry? I mean, do you regret all this?”

“No.” I let my hand fall. “For all I know, this is how it was meant to be all along. I’m not sure how free will works anymore, Dean. Or if it even exists. If I’m your guardian, if that’s my purpose, then maybe this was all preordained. But either way, it’s good. Here is good.”

Dean was silent.

Now my face was turning red. Or my vessel’s face, anyway. “How I got here wasn’t all good,” I clarified.  “There are so many things I wish I hadn’t done—”

“Stop. I know what you mean. And we’re not going there again.” He sighed and then pulled me into a gentle hug—Dean was a tender man, at heart.

I didn’t say anything. I just relaxed into his hold.

“I love you, Cas.”

I was stunned. It was the first time he had ever said those words out loud, though I read them often enough in his thoughts. But the way he said it—well, it sounded like a tired and reluctant confession.

“And I know that Sammy’s right,” Dean continued. “That I’m sending you all sorts of crazy mixed messages. But—look, you’re family. And something more than family, sometimes. You know that, right?”

“Yes. I know it.”

He snorted—something about my tone must have been weirdly funny, I suppose. I just kept silent.

The quiet seemed to suit Dean. He pulled me even closer, so that we were sort of tangled up with each other. And it must have felt as good to him as it did to me, because soon his breaths were deep and even again. And they stayed that way for the remainder of the night.

 

~*~

 

The knock came early—by seven o'clock. "Dean? Cas? Can we come in?"

That was Charlie's voice. I knew, even without accessing my angel mojo, that by 'we' she meant everyone else in the bunker.

Dean groaned and put a pillow on top of his head.

I gave him an uncertain look as I sat up. Then, since Dean wasn’t saying anything coherent, I decided to answer. “Yes." 

Charlie opened the door and traipsed inside, followed by George, Sam and Anne. They sat down on the floor in that order.

Anne tossed Dean—who was still smothering himself with the pillow—a mischievous glance. “Dean? Are we troubling thine angel and thee?”

He set the pillow aside and finally sat up. “Since mine angel is the one who let you bitches in, I’m guessing he’s not troubled.”

“I’m not,” I admitted.

“Fine.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Then you guys can stay.”

Sam smirked. “Aw, that’s cute, Dean. Your boyfriend’s comfort is all that matters.”

“Fuck you, Sammy.”

“I think it’s Castiel’s job to fuck you.”

“This is platonic.”

“If you say so.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Ah, my clothes?” George pointed to his modern but baggy outfit.  Neither Sam nor Dean were the right size for him, and I didn't have much in the way of clothing. But that was all right, because a shopping expedition was apparently on the day's agenda.

"We don't have a lot of cash." Sam opened his laptop as Anne peered over his shoulder. "But we have enough to get you some decent cheap stuff. Anne, you can still share with Charlie for now, right?"

“No.” Charlie opened her own laptop and shared the screen with George. “Let’s just say Anne and I aren’t the same size in everything.”

“Bras,” Anne said with a mournful face. “My dugs are too small to wear hers.”

Sam choked back an embarrassed laugh.

Dean, on the other hand, gave Anne’s breasts a critical once over with his eyes. “No offense, sweetheart, but your dugs are almost non-existent.”

“They were even tinier before she bore Elizabeth,” George muttered.

That elicited a shriek from Anne, who dived over Sam in order to smack her brother’s arm.

George grinned as he held up his hands in mock-defense. “Stand down!”

Anne, with a nasty parting look at her brother, complied. Sam, who had been attempting to protect his laptop and prop up Anne at the same time, helped her back down. His face, I noticed, was a curious shade of pink.

“Uh . . . .” Sam cleared his throat. “So, okay. Lingerie for Anne. Regular clothes for George. Let’s compare prices around here.”

“Are we poor?” Anne asked.

“Yes,” Sam and Dean answered together.

“I could fix that,” Charlie pointed out.

“Charlie, your hacking scams are a little too high profile,” Sam told her.

“What?” She looked genuinely offended. “I’m never caught.”

George cocked his head at Dean. “Why are we poor?”

Dean shrugged. “Because the family business of saving people and hunting things pays squat.”

That answer didn’t seem to satisfy George. “You hunt nefarious and vile creatures. Correct?”

“Yeah.”

“So have you not saved persons of wealth or rank?” Anne asked.

“On occasion,” Sam answered. “What are you two getting at?”

Anne and George glanced at each other. “Patronage,” George explained. “Why have you not patrons?”

“Why don’t you have patrons,” Sam corrected. “I mean, your way makes sense, but—”

“No, keep correcting us,” George said. “We want to sound like you peasants.”

Dean snorted. “Well, we don’t have patrons. We don’t roll like that.” His tone suggested that the conversation was over.

But Sam looked thoughtful. “Actually, Dean, it’s a fair question. If we’re really going to live up to the legacy of the Men of Letters, we need more resources. Hitting up rich people we’ve saved—that’s not a terrible idea.”

Dean made a gesture of defeat—temporary defeat, I think. “You know what? Let’s deal with breakfast, coffee and buying clothes. Then we can have a nice long talk about patrons. And maybe a panic room with angel wards.”

Charlie glanced at me and then at Dean. “A panic room?”

“Yeah. We’ll talk about it later.” Dean climbed out of bed and grabbed a towel and fresh clothes. “I’m hitting the shower. I want everyone out of this room by the time I get back.”

To my surprise, he paused to rest a hand on my shoulder. I gave him a questioning look.

He smiled down at me, his eyes gentle. “Everyone except for mine angel, that is.”


	12. Shopping Expedition

“George is a clothing whore.” Sam leaned back against the wall next to me, shaking his head in the general direction of the men’s department.

“He and Anne were both fashion plates in their day,” I reminded him. “They set the styles.”

Sam scoffed. “Yeah, but we can’t afford to make him look like he stepped out of GQ. He’s trying, though. He checks the men’s fashion blogs on Charlie’s phone every time he tries something on.”

I smiled. “George will probably find a way to look—to look GQ, no matter your budget.’”

“Well, I hope it doesn’t take too much longer.” Sammy paused, looking around. “Where’s my brother? And where’s Anne?”

“In the lingerie section.”

“What, both of them?”

I nodded.

“And . . . Dean is doing what there?”

“Helping Anne pick out bras.”

Sam stared at me.

I shrugged. “Anne was going to wait for Charlie to finish helping her brother, but Dean said Charlie didn’t know the first thing about women’s lingerie. And that if Anne didn’t want to end up with a lesbian-geek look, she ought to trust Dean instead.”

Sam seemed torn between laughter and eye-rolling. “Did Anne even know that Charlie’s a lesbian?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t know if she understood that reference.”

“Wait, she doesn’t know what a lesbian is?”

I made a face, trying to think how to explain it. “People in Anne’s day tended to think more in terms of specific homosexual acts—which were often criminal, at least between men—rather than orientation.”

“Huh. And both Boleyns are pretty traditional Christians, by our standards.” His face was—well, not disapproving, exactly, but concerned. “So is that going to be a problem? Are they going to give Charlie a hard time? Or you and Dean?”

“Sam, nothing is happening between me and Dean—”

“Cas, this is my brother we’re talking about. You really think he can do platonic?”

“I—” I shut my mouth, realizing I had no idea how to respond to that.

Sam came to my rescue by bringing us back to the question at hand. “Anyway, will it be a problem?”

I furrowed my vessel’s brow. “Perhaps they’ll be willing to accept my guidance on this matter.”

“Hmm. Yeah, they look up to you. Think that'll be enough?"

“If it isn't, we'll tell them to worry about their own sins, not what they think someone else's might be. Given that, they’ll probably decide not to judge.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Their own sins? You don’t mean incest, right?”

I gave him a look. “No. There are many sins that don’t involve sex.”

“Point taken.” Sam smiled. “And you’re right. We can work that angle. So, meanwhile—Dean is really helping Anne pick out bras.”

“Yes.”

“And she’s not shy or embarrassed about that?”

“Anne is rarely either shy or embarrassed. Plus, I think she can sense that Dean is safe.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s voice softened. “She’s really not his type, is she?”

“No. Not according to him.”

Sam nodded. “I get that. And you know something? He’s probably steering her the right way.”

“Um, I don’t know much about women’s undergarments.” I had never gone bra shopping with Meg or April, after all. “So how do you mean?”

“I mean he won’t recommend push up bras or anything that’ll make her look larger. Despite that stupid magazine he loves—”

“The one with the busty women of a particular ethnic background?”

“Right. That one. Despite it, my brother actually has good instincts. He’ll tell Anne to keep people looking at her best feature.”

I cocked my head up at him. “Her eyes.”

“Yeah. Guys must have waxed poetic over them, back in the day.”

“They did.” I felt suddenly uneasy as I remembered the power Anne could exercise over certain people. “Sam, you’re not—”

He grinned as he cut me off. “Falling for her? No. Not exactly.”

“What do you mean—”

But this time Dean cut me off. “Hey, you two.” He held up a couple of shopping bags as he Anne reached us. “Mission accomplished.”

Anne, who had one arm hooked through Dean’s, favored both Sam and me with that arch smile of hers. “Yes. Dean was most helpful.”

“What about her, uh, sweet brother?” Dean asked. “Is Charlie still helping him shop?”

“Yeah.” Sam pushed off the wall and straightened up. “Let’s go rescue her.”

 

~*~

 

Anne and George were both vehemently opposed to any angel wards in the bunker. “Dean, we will abide by your decision,” Anne said. “But should not Castiel be welcome everywhere here?”

We were gathered around one of the research tables. Anne was sitting at the head or foot of the table, depending on how you reckoned it, somehow looking regal in a sun dress that Dean had helped her pick out. Dean was seated at the other end, leaning forward with an exasperated expression.

“Nan is right.” George was standing behind his sister. “And we are not afeared of this angel who resurrected us.”

“We’re not afraid of,” Sam corrected. He was sitting toward the center with his laptop out.

“No one says ‘afeared’ anymore,” Charlie explained. She was set up with her own laptop, right across from Sam. “Your new accent is getting really good, though. You both sound like you belong in this century. Almost.”

“Thank you.” George nodded at her. “Afraid, then. We are not afraid.”

“He did us no harm,” Anne pointed out.

“Yeah? But what if he means to harm Cas?” Dean asked. “What if he’s using you two to get to Cas?”

George rolled his eyes. “A room warded against all angels will not help Castiel!”

“And how is it that angels can be enemies of one another?” Anne turned her wide, dark eyes toward me.

I stopped pacing behind Dean. “We—we no longer have the clear instructions we once relied on,” I said. ‘And you should know that I have changed since I strengthened the two of you in your faith. I’ve rebelled, sinned and fallen.”

Sam shook his head. “No. If you were really fallen—in the way you mean it right now—God wouldn’t keep bringing you back. You’re nothing like Lucifer and his ilk, Cas.”

I didn’t reply to that, but I couldn’t help but look at Sam with gratitude. God only knows how he kept his faith in me all this time. But he had.

Anne nodded. “I think Sam must be right. You are no fallen, demonic being, Castiel.”

Dean sighed and scrubbed his face with his fingers before looking up again. “You know what? I’m going with Anne and George on this. Whoever this angel is, he didn’t hurt them. They seem to be doing just fine so far in our time.”

“As far as we know,” Sam put in.

“Yeah, fine. As far as we know.” Dean shrugged. “If we find out their existence here is messing with the natural order—well, then we deal with that then. Meanwhile, I don’t want Cas locked out of anywhere here either.”

Charlie and Sam exchanged glances.

“You two going to fight me on this?” Dean asked.

Sam gave his brother a long, measuring look.  “No,” he said at last.

“Me either.” Charlie seemed focused on whatever information was flying across her screen.

Dean looked over his shoulder at me. “Cas?”

“I’ll agree only because a panic room wouldn’t be effective without considerable warning—which we’re not likely to have. But we should make certain that Anne and George learn how to expel angels.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed.

“All right.” Dean turned back to the table. “That’s fair. In fact, there’s a lot you two should learn. Starting with picking up after yourselves, by the way.”

I bit back a smile at that. There had been some . . . incidents regarding the way the Boleyns left the bathroom and kitchen.

The Boleyns exchanged guilty glances. “We are learning,” Anne said. “It’s just difficult to remember that we have no servants here.”

“Or luxuries.”

“What luxuries are you missing?” Charlie asked. “I mean, we have bathrooms and stuff.”

“The bathrooms are indeed an improvement,” George acknowledged. “But I do miss gold bed covers.” His eyes took on a faraway look.

“I don’t miss gold in fabric,” Anne said.

“Oh, the fabric today is much improved,” George agreed. “But it lacks a certain . . . excess.”

Dean was staring at both of them. “You had gold woven into your bed spreads? Seriously?”

“They did,” Sam said. “Or at least George and his wife did. I read about that.”

“Well, we are learning to live without such niceties,” Anne said philosophically. “And we have much more to learn if you expect us to be useful members of the Men of Letters.”

“Um, members?” Dean turned to Sam.

Sam blushed. “I’ve, uh, been filling them in.”

“Okay, but—the Men of Letters were hereditary. Or, at least some of them were hereditary. And we don’t even know exactly how their initiations worked.”

“I know.” Sam shifted in his seat toward his brother. “But we made Charlie a member, right?”

Dean frowned. “I thought that was kind of unofficial.”

“Why?” Sam leaned forward. “Our aim was never to recreate the Men of Letters just as it was, right? I mean, we might have the ancestry, but as hunters we probably wouldn’t have been welcome as regular members anyway. You know how they worked: they researched and collected the lore on all the monsters out there—”

“—and let hunters do all the dirty work. Yeah.” Dean leaned back in his chair. “So, what?  You want to make a new Men of Letters?”

“Yes.” Sam couldn’t keep the enthusiasm out of his voice. “We can make it better than it was. We can keep collecting the lore, disseminating it to the right people, and there doesn’t have to be a divide anymore between researchers and hunters. And we’re not alone. Aaron is rebuilding the Judah Initiative—that’s built in allies for us.”

“Who is Aaron?” George asked. “And what is the Judah Initiative?”

“It was this Jewish group, full of rabbis and stuff,” Dean explained. “They were kind of like the Men of Letters. And Aaron’s a friend.”

Both Boleyns looked intrigued. “You know rabbis?” Anne asked. “Are Jews allowed to practice openly here, then?”

“Yes,” I answered as Dean stared. “There is freedom of religion in most of Europe and the Americas now.”

Charlie grinned. “And freedom not to be religious.”

Dean shook his head, reminding himself how, ah, fucked up things were back in Tudor England. His thoughts were so loud right now—surely I wasn’t the only one who could hear them. 

“Anyway,” Charlie said.

“We can help collect lore,” Anne continued. “Our education will be to your advantage. And to the advantage of your allies.”

“Yes!” Sam smiled at her before turning back to Dean. “You won’t believe their education. Plus they can fill in a lot of blanks from their day.”

Dean looked skeptical. “They weren’t hunters, Sam.”

“Doesn’t matter. They still know plenty of things that we don’t—things we can use.”

“And we can learn to hunt as well.” George paused. “I don’t want my sister in the battlefield, but she can help defend this place.”

“Hey!” Charlie glanced up from her screen. “I go on hunts.”

George folded his arms across his chest. “I know. And that’s foolishness.”

“Um, this is a different world. Women serve in the armed forces now,” Sam said. “And Charlie’s a good hunter.”

George hesitated, apparently searching for the words he needed. “There were a few female warriors even in our day. But Charlie has skills with that deviltry”—he pointed at the laptop—“that none of you can match. Not even you, Sam. If she falls, who would replace her?”

Charlie somehow managed to look outraged and gratified at the same time.

But Dean scoffed. “Oh yeah? You volunteering yourself as more expendable?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously? Dude, Sam said that you were a poet or something. Can you even fight?”

Now it was George’s turn to stare. “I do not know how to use your firearms. But yes, I’ll wager you’ll find my skills in hand-to-hand combat acceptable.”

Dean’s back was to me, but I knew his eyes were sparkling at the challenge. “I would, huh?”

“Yes.”

Dean stood up. “Let’s find out for sure.”


	13. Make Your Move

I rarely got to watch Dean fight—if I was near him during a battle, I was usually in the thick of it too. But here was my chance. I leaned back against the wall in what had become, by default, the training room of the bunker. Then I glued my eyes to him.

He and George were both armed with a blunt sword for hacking and a blunt knife for stabbing. They hadn’t started yet—right now they were standing in the center of the room, sizing each other up. Charlie and Anne were discreetly discussing each man’s chances while Sam, I noticed, had quietly picked up blunt weapons of his own.

Finally Dean shrugged. “Okay, poet. We going to do this?”

George bowed.

Dean smiled a little at that. “Here’s the rules: you’re going to treat this like you’re fighting a vampire. That means you need to behead me—nothing else is going to stop me for long.”

“Not even one of your firearms?”

“No. That might slow me down—if you go out in the field, you’ll always have at least one gun—but you need to take my head clear off. If there’s any question, Cas can judge if the blow would have struck true.”

George grunted. “Fortunately I know a thing or two about beheading.”

Dean let out a surprised laugh. “Yeah, nothing like personal experience, I’ll bet. Ready?”

“Ready,” George confirmed.

The two men started circling each other. Dean attacked first—his movements were fast, lacking in any obvious grace, but brutal and efficient. He wasn’t holding back, either. He meant to teach this poet a lesson.

I caught my breath. I had beaten Dean to a bloody pulp twice. Once on purpose, when I was still naive and self-righteous. The other time against my will. But both times required my angel mojo. If I had to fight him with only the powers of a human . . . well, I didn’t like my chances.

Still, George was better than Dean imagined. Training in jousting and all manner of medieval weaponry will do that. He dodged the knife completely and escaped Dean’s sword with only a cut to the shoulder—had the sword been sharp, that is.

“First blood to you,” George acknowledged.

Dean started circling him, looking for another opening. “Yeah. But first blood don’t mean crap in a fight like this.”

“Good point.”

I narrowed my eyes at George. His defense was solid. And he caught Dean almost by surprise with a feint from his sword and a quick jab with his knife—but Dean’s instincts kicked in and he spun out of George’s range, unscathed.

“Not bad.” The words came under Dean’s breath, but I’m pretty sure George heard them.

And the dance began again. George went to full out defense, which should have given Dean the advantage. But he kept Dean circling, kept him moving, kept him wasting his energy with pointless hacks and jabs.

“You got to make a move eventually, man,” Dean warned.

“I will—”

Dean stepped in, lightning quick, cutting him off with a fast jab of his knife and a faster swing of his sword. But George dodged both—just barely. And then Dean was back to circling, back to looking for an opening.

“Really George? You got to go on the attack.”

“Do I? I’ll wager I can keep this up longer than you can.”

“Maybe,” Dean acknowledged. “But not longer than a vamp. So I suggest you make your move soon.”

“Or?”

A blade seemed to come out of nowhere, just missing George’s throat as he ducked it.

“Or one of the vamp’s nest-mates will show up to help!” Sam moved in closer and stabbed at George, but George hit the floor and rolled out of his range—slashing at Dean’s hamstrings along the way.

Dean jumped and hacked at George’s thigh. In a real fight, that would have been another blow, but not a crippling one. So George managed to roll up to his feet and come back at Dean with his own weapons. One slice at Dean’s arm—a small gash, really—and a stab to his side that Dean blocked easily.

But Sam was right behind him, and for all his fancy footwork George couldn’t keep guard against both of them. He mock-wounded both brothers more than once, but came nowhere near the fatal blow to the throat that would end a vamp. Ultimately, driven to the floor again, he had to admit defeat.

“This one is ours.” Sam gave George a hand up.

“Yes.” George took the hand and climbed to his feet again. “But not exactly a fair fight.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Do you expect one from vamps? Or any monster out there?”

“Fuck.” George’s face reddened as he shook his head. “That’s another good point.”

“You did good, George,” Sam said. “But this isn’t a boxing match—you won’t be able to tire most of your opponents. And, with something like a vamp, the longer the fight goes on the more likely they are to get reinforcements.”

“Yeah. The only time you stall is if you really can’t take the thing, and you’re hoping for reinforcements of your own.” Dean paused to place a hand on George’s shoulder. “But Sam’s right—you did good. And I don’t care if you’re a poet or a God-damned minstrel. We can definitely make a hunter out of you.”

 

~*~

 

It was a long while before Dean and I crawled into bed. First there was more training for George. Some for Anne too. Then we all had dinner at a pizzeria.

We drove there in two cars, as we had to the shopping mall. George, like Anne, had taken to the vehicles much faster than I thought possible—cars, electric lights, television, computers . . . the only thing they hadn’t embraced yet was Dean’s classic rock music. And that was just a matter of time.

But I shouldn’t have been surprised at how they threw themselves into this strange new world. They had always lived life to the fullest. And at least I wasn’t shocked when they both demanded driving lessons. Dean agreed, but made it clear that neither was close to touching the Impala.

When we returned to the bunker there was another discussion about the Men of Letters. Dean was slowly coming around to the idea of patrons, I think. Finally, we all brought popcorn and beer into Sam’s room for a viewing of the second part of _**The Lord of the Rings**_ trilogy.

But now the movie was over and Dean and I were both in his bed, tucked under the covers. I was on my back, staring up at the ceiling. So was Dean. At least to start with. But then he rolled onto his side, threw an arm halfway over me and rested his head in the crook of my shoulder.

I ran my fingers through his hair without thinking—and then froze. “Dean? Is this allowed?”

He snorted. “Why not? Might as well put a little more pressure on my scalp, though—like a massage.”

I complied. Tentatively.

“See?” He nuzzled closer. “That’s nice.”

And it was. It was very nice to have Dean so close. So close I could feel him breathing.

I let my fingers drift down to his neck, adding a little more pressure as I continued the massage. He moaned appreciatively as my grace flowed into him, healing his sore muscles.

“Oh, man.” Dean was all but purring. “Dude, you’re better than Magic Fingers.”

“Thank you.” That’s what I tried to say, anyway. But my breath hitched. I was glad Dean couldn’t see in the dark—glad he didn’t know how his nearness was affecting my vessel. My penis was suddenly hard . . . painfully hard. And the strangely sensual gravel in Dean’s murmurings wasn’t helping.

“What’s the matter, Cas?” He tugged me even closer.

“I, uh . . . nothing.”

“You are the worst liar ever.” He shook his head a little as he ghosted his hand down my stomach and then splayed his finger perilously close—

I gasped.

“Boner, huh?”

I tried to imitate his voice. “You think?”

He chuckled and rolled over onto his back. “Great. Now I’m getting a frigging hard on too.”

I suppose that should have been gratifying, but I was too confused to think about it. How did humans bear this? The aching, the wanting? My breath grew short. More blood rushed to my vessel’s penis and testicles. “Dean, perhaps we should just—”

“Find the least gay way to take care of this?”

I gritted my teeth. “Why do you make yourself sound so homophobic?”

He pushed himself up, breathing heavy. “I’m not a homophobe, okay? I don’t care what two random guys do with each other. It’s just—Sam’s right. When it’s about me, I have my own fucked up issues. Happy?”

“No.” And then I kissed him. I used my superior speed and strength to pin him down and press my lips on top of his.

Dean’s eyes were wide and startled—but he didn’t respond in any other way.

I released him almost at once and sprang out of bed, my vessel’s face flaming as I stared at the floor. “I’m sorry. I’m—forgive me, Dean. I have no excuse. I’ll leave you—”

“Cas!” Dean sat up.

“Yes?” I forced myself to meet his eyes. I didn’t need any light to see that they were hard and uncompromising.

“Don’t you dare wing out of here, man.”

“But—”

He cut me off. “And don’t you dare leave without finishing what you started.”


	14. Truth or Dare

I stared at Dean—stared hard, to make sure I was hearing what I was hearing. To make sure he wanted me.

He did. Or, at least, he was aroused. And not just his body. His soul was giving off a slow, simmering heat that seemed to shine out of his eyes.

“Come here, Cas.” Dean’s voice was gentle this time, as if he were talking to a skittish animal.

Despite that condescension, I obeyed him. And that turned out to be a good thing, because he pulled me back on top of him. He even shifted so that I could wrap my arms around him, holding him tight while he nuzzled his head against my neck.

I didn’t know what I was doing, exactly. Apparently there wasn’t going to be intercourse, because we were both still dressed in our t-shirts and boxer briefs. Then Dean started moving, thrusting his penis against mine. It felt good, even through the cotton barriers, so I did the same to him, keeping that same slow, grinding tempo.

But I wanted more. I wanted to taste Dean. I tilted my head and kissed him again—lightly on the lips.

He didn’t respond. He just stared at me for a second, even while we were still grinding against each other, and then grunted. “Fuck.”

“I don’t understand.” My breath was shortening again. “You usually kiss your partner when you’re making love. Why don’t you want to kiss me? Am I doing something wrong?”

“No—wait.” He stopped grinding. “Wait, how do you know what I do with other partners?”

I swallowed. “I—Dean, I’ve been your guardian for some time now. And I didn’t always understand the human need for privacy.”

“So you’ve watched me have sex?” His eyes were wide now. And panicked.

“Yes. Many times.”

“Fuck,” he said again.

“You are often a tender lover, Dean, even with your one night stands. And you kiss whatever woman you're with.”

“Okay. Listen.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “Okay. I’m, uh, going to ignore the fact that you were getting your rocks off by spying on me—”

“I was not getting any rocks off! I was hardly interested in human coupling at the time.”

“Sure you weren’t.” He took another deep breath—less shaky this time. “Look, Cas, we’re not making love, okay? We’re . . . we’re just fucking around.”

“Oh.”

He rolled his eyes—I think at the disappointment in my voice. “Fine,” he said. “We can kiss too.”

And we did. It was a slow, tentative kiss, at first. But at length we opened our mouths to each other—and he tasted so good. Partly like himself and partly like that strange minty mouthwash he liked. I must have tasted all right too, because suddenly he was kissing me harder, like he wanted to devour me.

We broke for air. And then we both laughed—I’m not sure why, but it was a good kind of laughter. And then Dean initiated another kiss, this one slow and gentle.

We started rubbing and grinding our erections together again. While we kept kissing, I mean. I picked up the tempo—it felt like the right thing to do—and Dean matched me. We kept going until suddenly I tightened my grip on Dean and felt my vessel climax in waves that crested and slowly ebbed. Dean came in one hard shot that left him sweaty and exhausted and feeling just right in my arms.

I rolled off of him and pulled him close. He didn’t object. He just nestled back into the crook of my shoulder.

“That was . . . not bad,” he whispered. “Even if it was a little gay.”

I sighed. “Dean, don’t disparage . . .”

“Shhh. Fucked up issues, remember? Now let me sleep.”

“Okay.” I kissed the top of his head and gathered him close, content to give up the argument in favor of enjoying the feel of his deep, steady breaths against my side.

 

~*~

 

It’s not true that angels never sleep. We don’t require it the way humans do—and few of us like to give up the constant awareness we take for granted in exchange for dreams. I only indulged a few times before I got a taste of what it’s like to be human: most notably in the back of the Impala. I smiled a little, remembering how I had simply shut down and trusted Sam and Dean not to steer the three of us wrong.

I didn’t shut down tonight, though I was tempted. I felt satiated and safe and relaxed and—well, as if everything in the world was at peace . . .  just because Dean and I had made love. Or, fine, fucked around. Whatever we had done, it felt good and right.

But the feeling of peace everywhere was just an illusion. In reality, there was an unknown angel out there to contend with. Until I knew his or her reasons for bringing Anne and George back, I couldn’t relax. Not even with Dean in my arms.

I brushed my lips against his hair and then tried to make way out of bed without disturbing him. No use—he woke up as soon as I shifted away from him.

“Hey.” He stared at me in the darkness for a second, and then sat up and turned on a light. “Everything okay?”

“As far as I know. I thought I’d take a walk around the bunker. Perhaps do a little research—I don’t know how much the Men of Letters knew or guessed about angels, but maybe I can find some mention of the Boleyns.”

“All right.” He yawned and stretched. Then he cocked his head at me and furrowed his brow, as if an idea had suddenly struck him. “You don’t suppose some angel needs them as vessels, do you?”

I raised my eyebrows, intrigued and frightened by that thought. “I suppose that’s a possibility.”

“I mean, it’s a bloodline thing. But Anne or George don’t have direct descendants now, right? Elizabeth didn’t have any kids.”

“Right. But Mary Boleyn—their older sister—had children. Her line might still exist.” I sighed and shook my head. “If this angel wanted Anne or George for a vessel, they’d have made the attempt immediately, when either of them would have innocently agreed. Why wait till one of us could warn them about what being a vessel means?”

“Good point. Except that—uh, we haven’t warned them, actually.”

We both stared at each other and then climbed out of bed. Dean pulled on a pair of jeans; I used my mojo to put my suit and trench coat back on. Though it was more of an overcoat, really. Everyone just insisted on calling it a trench coat.

Voices drifted toward us as Dean led the way out of the room and into the library—voices belonging to Anne and Sam.

“Your turn,” Sam was saying.

“Truth,” she replied. There was no mistaking the challenge in her voice.

“Are you sure?” Sam’s tone held a teasing warning. “I’m not promising to be a gentleman.”

“I know you’re not of the gentry—oh, that’s not your meaning, is it? Go on, Sam. Ask as intimate a question as you dare.”

Dean coughed as we stepped into the room and then folded his arms over his chest. “We interrupting something?”

“Not at all,” Anne said smoothly.

“No,” Sam agreed, smiling as he twisted around in his chair to see us. “What’s up?” 

Dean hesitated, perhaps because Anne and Sam both looked completely innocent. Anne was sitting at the table in her shift, which I suppose she was still using as a night gown. Her hair was spilling over her shoulders and her arms were wrapped around her knees. She looked, at the moment, much younger than her thirty-five years.

Sam, meanwhile, was sitting opposite her. Until a second ago, he had been leaning back comfortably in his chair, his feet stretched into Anne’s space—but hers were up on her seat, so that didn’t mean anything.

Yes, it all seemed innocent. But for some reason Dean’s hackles were raised. And he wasn’t bothering to hide the fact.

“Anne, we need to talk to you and your brother,” Dean said. “It’s important. Could you go get him?”

“I can, yes.” She unfolded herself and stood up. “Is something wrong?”

“Cas and I came up with a new theory about why you two were resurrected—a long shot, we hope. But we got to explain a couple of things to you two about angels.”

“Very well. He’s like to be still awake, either reading or watching something. He hasn’t been able to tear his eyes away from that tablet Charlotte loaned him.” She favored Dean with an elegant curtsy and then swept off toward George’s room.

Dean took the chair next to his brother. “Do you have any idea what you’re getting into?”

Sam still looked perfectly innocent. “Dean, we were just talking.”

“Truth or Dare is just talking?”

“I was teaching her about our culture.”

“You were about to ask—how did Anne put it? 'As intimate a question as you dared.'”

“Historical curiosity.” Sam shrugged. “There are a lot of mysteries in her past—some of them about her prior relationships. You know, before Henry.”

“Historical curiosity.” Dean gave him a look. “Seriously?”

That earned Dean another shrug. “Why not? How often do we get to talk to someone like her?”

“Someone like her.” Dean shook his head. “Listen, I like her, Sam. I do. But don’t you know her type? If she’s seriously flirting with you, run.”

“Dean—”

“I mean it, Sammy! Look, even if we knew that she's supposed to be here, in our time, you should still keep away. She won’t do anything easy. And she’s ambitious. So however much she likes you, she’ll be using you too.”

“Using me?” Sam snorted. “What do I have to offer Anne Boleyn?”

“I don’t know, dude. She’s into our whole operation here.”

“So?”

“So maybe she wants a boyfriend with the right ancestry. You’re one of the Men of Letters through our Dad and a hunter through our Mom. Plus you have a guardian angel”—Dean pointed at me—“that she already knows and trusts.”

“She was married to the King of England, Dean. You think she wants to settle for a Man of Letters?”

“I don’t know.” Dean gave him an exasperated shrug. “If she’s really dedicating herself to what we’ve got going on here, then yeah. So walk away now.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Sam smiled at his older brother. “I know she’s not your type. But that doesn’t mean I can’t keep my options open.”

“She won’t settle for a one night stand. You get that, right?”

“I get that.”

“And she’ll be using you, one way or another.”

“All right. Maybe she will be. But so what? She’s Anne Boleyn. I mean, dude!”

“You’re such a freaking history geek.” Dean rolled his eyes.

“I am.” Sam put an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Listen, there's nothing to worry about. Anne and I are both adults, remember? And I think—I think we kind of get each other. Besides, if anything ever happens between us, it’s only fair that she gets to use me. Because believe me, Dean, I’ll be using her too."


	15. Not What We Established

George folded his hands on top of the research table and leaned forward. “You want us to refuse such a request? From an angel?”

“If an angel asks you to be his or her vessel, then yeah.” Sam leaned back again, still in his same spot. “Look, Dean and I both know how hard it is to say no. But we know what we’re talking about here.”

Anne, who was seated next to her brother, turned to me. “Yet you have a vessel, Castiel. Your true form isn’t a human one.”

I was standing at the head of the table—or foot, I suppose—next to Dean. I glanced at him before I answered. He gave me an encouraging nod.

“My vessel was named Jimmy Novak,” I said at last. “He was a good and pious man. He prayed every day to do God’s will, to be an instrument of God and His angels. And so . . .”

I paused, picturing Jimmy in my head. He looked subtly different when he was alone inside this vessel. That was one more thing I took for him; the easy way his skin fit him. The way it truly belonged to him, while I would forever be a borrower. 

Suddenly I felt Dean’s hand on my back, warm and reassuring.

“I knew Jimmy was a match for me,” I continued. “So I asked his permission to take him as a vessel. He gave it, requesting only that I protect his family.” I paused again. “I failed in that. Because of me, Jimmy and his wife are dead. His only child—she’s alive, thankfully. But she has her share of troubles.”

“So the moral of the story is: don’t let an angel possess you,” Dean said. “If one of them asks, you say no.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “And, trust us, a lot of them aren’t like Cas. They don’t really understand humans and they don’t bother trying to. Some of them try to help, but others are just—they have a job to do, and they do it, no matter the cost.”

George shook his head. “If an angel were to make such a request, how could we not consider it an honor? And our duty to accept?”

Anne placed a hand on her brother’s arm. “I agree with George.”

Dean sighed. “Look, the angels don’t have the same kind of divine direction they had in your day. God isn’t giving them clear instructions anymore—if He ever did.”

George shook his head. “God may seem quiet, but He would never leave heaven or earth adrift.”

Dean scoffed, but Sam gave him a look.

“Fine,” Dean said. “I’ll keep my opinion on the Big Guy to myself.”

 Sam turned back to George and Anne. “How about this? Cas knows all the angels. He’ll have an idea of which can be trusted. Would you two at least promise to talk it over with him before you say yes?”

“Of course,” Anne said. “We will discuss the matter with Castiel—and we would both prefer Dean’s blessing before we give our assent.”

“Yes,” George agreed.

“Dean’s blessing?” Sam was speechless.

But Dean grinned. “Man, I can get used to this level of respect.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you can.” Sam glared at him before turning back to the Boleyns. “I know that things were more, ah, hierarchical in your day. But that’s not how it is here. My brother is not our boss.”

George gave Sam a look that was exasperated and haughty at the same time. “Sam, I make every allowance for the, ah, peculiarities of your culture. I admire this country for attempting to recreate something like the Roman Republic. But the people in this bunker are at war with demons and monsters. We require a clear chain of command.”

“Yes.” Anne picked up where her brother left off. “And Dean is a righteous man with heaven’s blessing.”

“With heaven’s blessing?” Sam said. “You think this because Castiel is his guardian?”

“Not only that,” she shot back. “Charlotte told us of the Winchester Gospels, and how Dean fulfilled a heavenly duty that only a righteous man could—”

“Oh, man.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Remind me to have a talk with Charlie.” He let his hand drop from my back so that he could point at Anne and George. “You two are never allowed to read those books.”

They both blushed.

“You can’t have already read them,” Sam said. “You haven’t even been here a week yet.”

“They are—what is the word?” George asked. “Downloaded, I believe. Yes, downloaded to my tablet and Nan’s phone.”

Dean stared. “Anne has a phone?”

She smiled, looking quite pleased with herself. “Yes, thanks to Charlotte. Oh, I need to add you all to my contacts.”

“Yes, but back to the matter at hand,” George insisted. “Dean is our commander.  If he falls, then you, Sam, will take over. And if you fall—well, I suppose Castiel could assume temporary command until we’ve regrouped.”

“Would that be acceptable, Castiel?” Anne’s dark eyes met mine.

“I don’t know if that would be possible,” I answered. “If Dean were to die, I’m not sure what my fate would be. Especially if Sam died as well.”

“What your fate—” Dean broke off to stare at me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You said it yourself, Dean. My purpose may very well be to—to perch on your shoulder. To serve as your guardian.”

“And?”

“And I think you’re right about that. I think that’s why God keeps resurrecting me or allowing me to be resurrected. But once you die, I’ll have fulfilled my purpose.”

“And that means what?”

“Dean.” I shifted to face him. And then, seeing his expression, I sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s possible that once you die, my Father will no longer require my continued existence.”

 

~*~

 

I’ve seen Dean’s fury before. I’ve been the object of it before. But never like this. He was standing there, fists clenched, almost shaking but just holding it together.

He met my eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why the fuck didn’t you mention that you being my guardian meant that your life ends when mine does? I thought you were immortal!”

“You know angels can die, Dean.”

“Yeah—but not that God would just . . . would just extinguish them because they weren’t useful anymore! Who the hell believes crap like that?”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to see him so upset—but I didn’t want to lie to him either. I had always lived with the possibility that someday there would be a period to my existence. 

“I don’t know this for certain, Dean,” I said. “I don’t know anything for certain. But angels have always died, even outside of battle. And there is lore that suggests we are created for a specific purpose. One we have completed that purpose . . . well, then we cease to be.”

Dean looked to his brother. “Is that true?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Yes and no. I mean, there is an idea out there—especially in some strands of Jewish thought—that angels spring into being for a particular reason, accomplish that, and then are, you know, extinguished. Or get reabsorbed into, um, whatever God created them from. Or maybe back into God Himself. But those angels are thought to be automatons. Like divine robots. No personality or anything.”

“That’s what we thought Cas was like,” Dean pointed out.

“Well, yeah, way back when,” Sam agreed. “But not now. He’s much more human now. He was even literally human for a while, back when he lost his mojo. Or sort of human, at least. And he definitely has a personality and stuff.”

“But not a soul in the sense that a human has one,” I said.

“You have your grace.” Dean’s voice was uncharacteristically toned down. He was still holding his fury in. I don’t know how, though—I could see it, red hot and roiling just below the surface.

“Yes,” I agreed, keeping my voice as gentle as I could. “And, if I do truly die, I believe that my grace will rejoin its Source. But I honestly don’t know if it’s immortal in the way a human soul is, Dean.”

He swallowed. “You said that Jimmy Novak and his wife are reunited in heaven, right?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“So why do I have to face a heaven—or hell or purgatory or wherever the fuck God wants to stash me when I die—without you?”

I put a hand on his other shoulder as well. “Dean, this is only one possibility. I’d much rather stay with you for all eternity.”

“Then why would you say something like this?!”

“Because . . .” I sighed. “Because I forgot that you had probably never thought about this. But, listen, whatever happens, you’ll have Sam—”

“Oh, I’ll have Sam?” Dean broke away from me. “News flash, Cas. When me and Sammy were in heaven before, he was just fine on his own. He doesn’t need me.”

“Dean!” Sam stood up. “Dean, it wasn’t like that.”

Anne’s mouth fell open. “You two have been to heaven?”

Dean stared at her. He must have forgotten the Boleyns were both still sitting there. “Yes. I’ve got the freaking trifecta: I’ve been to hell, heaven and purgatory.”

George shook his head and then looked pointedly at his sister. “That settles it. We must read these Winchester Gospels.”

Sam ignored the comments. “Dean, when we were in heaven—look, we weren’t there long enough for things to be like they would for eternity. Of course I need you.”

“No you don’t, Sammy. Not the way—not the way I need my little brother, okay?  And I get that. It’s fine.”

“Dean, listen to me. If we both make it back to heaven, I promise we will see each other there.”

“Good. I’m counting on it. But you know it won’t be like—listen, man, if I’m stuck with immortality, I need Cas at my side.”

Sam looked—I’m not sure how to describe it. A little frustrated and a little distraught, I think, as he sat back down. I felt I owed him an explanation.

“I know I can’t replace you, Sam,” I said. “But Dean and I have established that I can serve as a somewhat adequate substitute for you on the one hand and Lisa on the other. And I hope my Father will allow me to keep serving as such once Dean is dead—”

But Dean was scrubbing his face with both hands. “Cas,” he interrupted, “That is not what we established.” He reached out and tugged me forward until his body and my vessel were crushed against each other.

And then he kissed me, on the mouth. Right in front of Sam and both Boleyns.

It was a long kiss. I opened my lips to him, allowing our tongues to thrust against each other—and I wasn’t sure if we were warring or negotiating, but either way it felt like bliss.

By the time we broke apart, Dean had both his hands on my face. “You listen to me, mine angel. You are not a substitute for anyone. You’re—you’re you. And you’re irreplaceable. Okay?”

I stared at him. “I, uh . . . okay.”

“Good.” He let go of me and turned to the Boleyns. “And I don’t want to hear any comments about me and Cas from you two, no matter how religious you are.”

“Ah—” George swallowed. “Castiel is an angel of the Lord, Dean. Whatever special relationship you two enjoy is, uh—”

“Mystical,” Anne supplied. “Anything thou dost with thine angel is . . . mystical.”

“Yes.” George nodded. “Mystical.”

“I don’t care if it’s mystical or not,” Sam said. “I’m just really happy for, uh, thee and thine angel.”

“Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam smiled a little. “So you two ready to go ring shopping?”

“I don’t think so,” I answered. “We’re just fucking around.”

Dean let out a long, exasperated sigh. “We are not just fucking around.”

I frowned. “But you said—”

“I know what I said, Cas! But that was before . . . before I realized we might not have forever to get our acts together.” He sighed again and then grabbed my hand. “Come on. Let’s get back to bed.”


	16. At the Tower

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

I traced an imaginary line from his shoulder down to his hip. “I was . . . speculating. You understand that, right? I don’t know what my fate will be when you die.”

“Yeah. I get that. Not exactly filled with comfort right now.”

I shifted a little and then pulled him closer to me. We were spooning again, but this time his back was pressed to my chest. “You’re angry.”

“Not at you.”

“At God.” I didn’t make it a question.

He shrugged. “Just like always.”

I kissed the back of his head. He stiffened for just a moment, and then relaxed back against me. He even took my arm and drew it tighter around himself.

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

“You’ve been around for a long time. I mean, way longer than me. Longer than humanity, even.”

“Yes.”

“So you can’t be here just for me and Sam.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I honestly don’t know.”

“You were here for the Boleyns.”

I considered that. “Yes. I wasn’t their guardian—but I was there for each of them at the hour of their need. Not to prevent their fate, but to strengthen them to face it.”

“What made you go to them?”

“I heard their prayers. They have powerful prayers.”

He looked over his shoulder at me. “Have? Like, they still do?”

“Yes. I can still hear their prayers every night and every morning. I like to think my Father hears them too.”

“Have they been praying to you or to God? Or doesn’t it matter? And what do they ask for?”

I didn’t answer.

“Or maybe they don’t ask for anything. Maybe—” he broke off. “Oh. You can’t tell me, can you?”

“No.”

“Okay. My bad.” He rolled over to face me. “Do you like having them here?”

“Anne and George? Very much. Except . . . .” I bit my lip, unsure how to explain it.

Dean sat up and turned on the light. Then he smiled down at me—a gentle smile—and ran a finger through my hair. “You’re worried? That they don’t belong here?”

“Yes and no.” I sat up too, shifting so that we were still facing each other. “They’ve been quick to find a new purpose.”

“Hunting and the Men of Letters.”

“Yes. And if that is a valid purpose—well, then perhaps they belong here. But, Dean . . . they died well.”

“They were too young to die, Cas. And they were innocent. I know Sam says they were kind of ruthless, but they didn’t do the things they were accused of.”

“No, they didn’t. I’m not saying they deserved to die, Dean. Just that—the way they faced it. And so much of what they worked for came to pass afterward.”

“So it feels like their lives should have been complete?”

“Yes.”

“Cas, remember when you said you tried to resurrect Bobby? I mean, you did it once and it worked, because it wasn’t his time. Because he still had a reason to be here. But you couldn’t again.”

I nodded slowly. “Right.”

“You could tell, right? If you could tell with Bobby, how come you can’t tell with Anne and George?”

“I—wait.” I looked Dean in the eyes. “Maybe I can. But I’d like your help.”

“Sure, man. What can I do?”

“I need to watch their executions again. I was with them both on the scaffold.”

“Uh, okay.” Dean blinked. “How do you want me to help you with that, exactly?”

I took a deep breath as I placed a hand on his shoulder. “I want to share my memories with you. I want to bring you inside my memories, so you can see them and make your own judgments.”

Dean looked apprehensive. “And that will help?”

“Yes. I think so. Well, I may have to protect you a bit. I see the world somewhat differently than you do.”

He smiled. “I’d kind of like to see the world the way you do.”

“I’m not sure that’d be healthy for you.” I let my hand drop. “But I can arrange it so that you see my memories as a human should. Mostly, anyway.”

“Okay. I’m game. But what am I supposed to be watching for?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But another perspective may be just what I need.”

“All right. What do you want me to do, Cas?”

I raised my fingers to his forehead. “Just relax,” I ordered. “And trust me.”

 

~*~

 

Dean didn’t panic when he found himself on the scaffold on Tower Hill.  He just put his hand on my shoulder, as if to steady himself, and took a couple of deep breaths.

“Are you all right?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he answered. “You know me—time travel was never my thing.”

“This isn’t time travel.” I tried to make my voice sound reassuring.  “It's more like looking at things through a Pensieve. Like in the Harry Potter stories."

"My own personal dork angel," Dean muttered. "Save that kind of reference for Sam and Charlie, okay?"

"Shouldn't that be 'mine own' personal dork angel?"

He rolled his eyes. "Really?"

I smiled just a little. "Everything appears normal to you?”

“Uh . . .” he looked around. “Old fashioned, but yeah. Normal.”

That was good. It meant I had succeeded in protecting him from the alien parts of my memories—the way I saw things as an angel, which might have overwhelmed him.

I had done everything I could to ensure his comfort, so we could both focus on the matter at hand. I even made sure he was clean and dressed, and that I was wearing my familiar suit and trench coat.

“Where are we?” Dean’s eyes scanned the scaffold first, but then rested on the axe man, who was waiting patiently to perform his duty. Then Dean stared down at the crowd. “This is London? Yeah, I guess so.” He looked up. “That’s the Tower over there?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. The Tower of London. Right before an execution.”

“Not just one,” I reminded him. “George will be beheaded first, followed by four other falsely accused men. All friends to Anne and George, except perhaps young Mark Smeaton. And friends of the king, as well.”

“Damn.” Dean glanced around at the crowd again. “Look at the way these people are all dressed. Most of them look rich.” He wrinkled his nose. “But they stink—dude, they can’t see us, right?”

“No. You’re just viewing my memory, Dean. My memory of May 17, 1536.”

“Right.” He looked up at the sky. “Well, nice spring day, at least.”

“It is, I suppose. George and the other prisoners will be marched over shortly.”

Dean looked at me. “Does Henry seriously believe that Anne slept with all those guys? I mean, with his own buddies?  Never mind her own brother.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “I’m not in the king’s confidence. But if I had to guess?”

“Yeah.”

“He either knows they’re innocent and doesn’t care. Or he’s an idiot who believes whatever his right hand man, Thomas Cromwell, tells him.” I paused to give Dean a sour smile. “But I don’t think Henry is an idiot.”

Dean sighed. “So he’s a psychopath who just wants Anne and George gone. Why? Just because Anne gave him a daughter instead of a son?”

I shrugged. “He’s obsessed with fathering a legitimate male heir, that’s true. And Anne committed two sins: first she bore Elizabeth instead of a boy. And then she miscarried their next child.”

“And so Henry wants her beheaded.”

“Well, he’s also fallen out of lust with Anne and into lust with Jane Seymour.” I paused. “But there’s more to it.”

“Like what?”

I sighed, wondering how to put the complicated politics of King Henry VIII’s court into a nutshell. “That Thomas Cromwell I mentioned? He rose to power recently, partially thanks to his support for Anne Boleyn.”

“I know who Cromwell is,” Dean said. “He used to work for that Cardinal Wolsey guy before he—Wolsey, I mean—fell out of favor.”

I raised my eyebrows.

Dean shrugged. “There are lots of movies and TV shows about these people.”

“Ah. Well, Cromwell is also a reformer. He’s helping Henry shut down all the monasteries now—and there’s a lot of money in those monasteries. Anne wanted that money to go toward charity and education. Cromwell wants to replenish Henry’s coffers.”

“Wait, let me guess. Henry’s with Cromwell on this.”

“Yes. Anyway, Anne and Cromwell broke up their alliance over this issue. A nasty break up. And he’s the one who gathered all the evidence against her and George and the rest of her supposed lovers.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes. Right there.” I pointed to an austere, hard looking man.

Dean stared at him. “The dude looks constipated. So what about Henry? He isn’t here?”

“No. He won’t bother to show—not here, and not at Anne’s execution two days from now.”

“Prince of a guy,” Dean muttered. But then he elbowed me. “Look. Here comes George.”


	17. The Scaffold

We watched George make his way toward the scaffold, under armed escort, followed by the other four condemned men. The crowds stared at them, but made no move to molest them or harass them. They weren’t quite mourning, but they were showing the prisoners respect.

George climbed the steps to the scaffold on his own. He paused as he reached the top and looked directly into my eyes.

Dean turned to stare at me. “He can see you? Or he saw you, I guess.  Back then?”

“Yes.”

“In your true form?”

“Yes. A glimpse of it, anyway.”

George nodded in my direction, no longer as overwhelmed as he had been when I first revealed myself. It was a short but respectful nod in lieu of falling to his knees. He even managed a grateful smile, as if he was quietly thanking me for being there. Then he turned to face the crowd, just inches from where he would have to kneel and rest his head on the block.

An official spoke first, but then George took a step forward to address his final audience. “Christian men, I am born under the law, and judged under the law, and die under the law, and the law has condemned me.”

His words were crisp and clear for those of us close to him, but too soft for the entire crowd. Many of them moved closer, the better to hear him.

“Christian men,” he repeated, only a little louder. “I am born under the law, and judged under the law, and die under the law, and the law has condemned me.”

The crowd was utterly silent now. All of them were pressing forward. Despite the grim circumstances, I couldn’t suppress a smile of my own. The Boleyns were masters of theatrics.

“Christian men,” George said, one last time, “I am born under the law, and judged under the law, and die under the law, and the law has condemned me.”

“He’s got them hooked,” Dean murmured. “But he ain’t confessing to anything, is he?”

“No. He’s saying that the law has condemned him, not that he’s guilty.”

“Masters all,” George continued. “I am not come hither for to preach but for to die.”

His expression was self-deprecating. The courtiers here knew George’s habit of discussing theology or preaching the Gospel at any and every opportunity.

“For I have deserved for to die if I had twenty lives,” he went on, his face utterly serious now. “More shamefully than can be devised, for I am a wretched sinner, and I have sinned shamefully. I have known no man so evil, and to rehearse my sins openly it were no pleasure to you to hear them, nor yet for me to rehearse them, for God knoweth all.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Dean demanded. “What did he do? He’s making himself sound like a serial killer.”

“No. Well, he has sinned, but not to that extent. This is sort of a standard Christian disclaimer,” I explained. “Especially among reformers. You know, ‘all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God’ and so on.”

Dean just rolled his eyes—theology was never his subject.

“Therefore, masters all, I pray you take heed by me, and especially my lords and gentlemen of the court, the which I have been among, take heed by me, and beware of such a fall, and I pray to God—the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, three persons and one God—that my death may be an example unto you all, and beware, trust not in the vanity of the world, and especially in the flattering of the court.”

Dean nudged me. “You know, despite the weird accent—I mean, it’s not even a normal English accent—I can understand him.”

“Well, your language hasn’t changed much, really, from this day to ours.”

“And I cry God mercy.” George paused, looking straight out into the audience. His eyes alighted on a woman there. “And ask all the world forgiveness,” he said, his voice gentle, “as willingly as I would have forgiveness of God.”

“Who’s that?” Dean asked.

“His wife,” I answered. “Jane Parker Boleyn.”

“Oh yeah. He supposedly cheated on her.”

“And if I have offended any man that is not here now,” George said, looking over the wider crowd again, “either in thought, word, or deed, and if you hear any such, I pray you heartily on my behalf, pray them to forgive me for God’s sake.”

“Look at Jane, Cas. She’s not angry with him.”

She wasn’t. Tears stained her face, but she was clearly there to support her husband, not to reprimand him and certainly not to rejoice in his death.

“And yet, my masters all, I have one thing for to say to you.” George softened his voice just a bit again—just enough to make his audience press in even closer. “Men do come and say that I have been a setter forth of the word of God, and one that have favored the Gospel of Christ; and because I would not that God’s word should be slandered by me, I say unto you all, that if I had followed God’s word in deed as I did read it and set it forth to my power, I had not come to this.”

Dean shook his head a little. “Anne is as religious as he is, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I hope Sam understands what he’s getting into.”

George took a deep breath before bringing his speech to a conclusion. “I did read the Gospel of Christ, but I did not follow it; if I had, I had been a live man among you: therefore I pray you, masters all, for God’s sake stick to the truth and follow it, for one good follower is worth three readers, as God knoweth.”

“Huh.” Dean looked impressed. “That was a pretty good speech.”

“Yes.”

“But it’s not going to save him.”

“No.” Even now, George was kneeling and laying his head down on the block.

Dean threaded his way over to him, past the officials, past the priest, and knelt down at George’s side, placing a hand on his new friend’s back. And when George began murmuring the Pater Noster—the Our Father—Dean said the prayer with him. After all the Latin rituals Dean had memorized, the words were familiar to him.

George couldn’t feel the hand, couldn’t know that Dean was there—or that Dean, who despised God, was praying with him. This was only my memory, after all. And Dean knew that.

I had never admired Dean more.

The executioner took his place. The axe fell, splattering Dean with blood. A good, clean blow, though—George’s head was completely severed from his body.

One official held up George’s head to the silent crowd. But it would not be put on a spike for public display, at least. It would be buried with the rest of George’s remains.

Dean stood up slowly as the next prisoner climbed the steps to the scaffold. His eyes, I realized—Dean’s, I mean—were fixed on the crowd below . . . and his face was turning pale. He swallowed and then walked back to me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I got a good look at Cromwell from there,” he said. “Look close.”

I did, but shrugged. I didn’t notice anything different about him, except a look of sour satisfaction that the job was done. “What of him?”

“The ring,” Dean said. “The ring on the third finger of his left hand.”

I trained my eyes on it and then stared back at Dean. “It’s—it’s an Aquarian star.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. The emblem of the Men of Letters.”

 

~*~

 

“Fuck,” Dean said.

I just nodded. I couldn’t think of anything to add.

We were back in Dean’s bedroom—back in just our t-shirts and boxer briefs—sitting on the bed, staring at each other. We kept staring at each other for a long minute, until I finally broke the silence.

“I can’t believe I missed that. I must have seen it. Everything you saw was part of my memory. But somehow I didn’t notice it.”

Dean shook his head. “Don’t beat yourself up. Back then, you wouldn’t have had any reason to notice, right?”

“True. I had no particular connection to the Men of Letters. In fact, we can’t say for sure that Cromwell belonged to them; other groups have used the Aquarian star.”

“Yeah.” Dean furrowed his brow. “But the Men of Letters existed back then?”

“Yes. As far as I know.”

“Well, we got to find out more about Cromwell. If he was a member, I’m guessing there’s a record of it here, somewhere.” He paused. “I know Sammy’s been working on cataloguing everything. But that’s a massive job. Maybe Anne and George can help.”

“Probably. They must not have known about the Men of Letters.”

Dean grunted. “I hope not. Otherwise I’d have expected them to say something by now. But they knew a lot about Cromwell, right? They were allies, originally?”

“Right.”

He started to climb off the bed. “Let’s go find them—”

But a knock at the door interrupted him. “Dean! Art thou and thine angel getting all mystical at the moment?”

Dean stayed on the bed and rolled his eyes. “We’re safe. Come in, Charlie.”

The door burst open and she shot inside, straight onto the bed and into Dean’s arms, knocking him backward. He laughed and held her close, not even bothering to try and sit up again.

“You came out of the closet! I can’t believe I missed that. But Anne and George gave me all the deets.”

“I did not come out of a closet,” Dean insisted. “It’s like they said. Cas is an angel, so this is all mystical.”

She pushed herself up a little bit so she could slap his shoulder. “Oh, no. You are getting a queer card, like it or not. How will you identify from now on? I always thought of you as bi, but you can make a case for omni. Especially since—wow. Cas is technically another species . . .”

“Morning all,” Sam said as he strolled in without ceremony. “Charlie, get off of Dean.”

She rolled off of him and launched herself at me, throwing her arms around my neck. “I’m so happy for you too, Cas!”

“Um, thank you,” I said, patting her back.

Dean shook his head again. “Cas, you are like the most awkward hugger ever.”

I gave him an exasperated look over Charlie’s shoulder. “I still don’t understand the rules!”

He didn’t get to answer me, or explain the rules of hugging in more detail, because Charlie and Sam just laughed and then Anne and George swept into the room. Soon everyone was rearranged, with Charlie sitting between Dean and me on the bed and Anne sitting between Sam and George on the floor. Sam had his laptop out; George still had one of Charlie’s tablets.

“Okay, what’s going on?” Dean asked. “Is this a thing now, with y’all barging into our room every morning?”

I felt a warm glow spread through my vessel. Dean thought of this as our room now, not just his.

“It is, indeed, a thing,” George confirmed.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “It’s as good a place as any to hold first-thing-in-the-morning meetings of the new and hopefully improved Men of Letters.”

“So we’re all members now?” Charlie asked.

Sam and Dean exchanged glances.

“Well, Dean?” Sam asked. “You’re the one in charge.”

Dean stared at his brother. “You’re good with that?”

Sam hesitated—but only for a moment. Then he looked straight at his older brother, his eyes softening. “Yeah. I am.”

“Well, um—okay then,” Dean managed, trying to hide how much Sam’s words touched him. “Yeah, then I guess everyone here is officially a member.”

“I expect an initiation ceremony,” Anne announced.

George gave her a look. “Something a little less grueling than your coronation, I hope.”

She shuddered. “I was some six months with child—with Elizabeth. And everything went on for hours. And that wretched crown!”

“That was a ridiculously heavy crown,” George agreed.

I cleared my throat. “Perhaps we should worry about ceremonies and such later. Dean and I have some news.”

“Yeah, Cas is right. Let’s get straight down to business.” Dean took a deep breath and then stared at Anne and George.

They both looked at each other and then back at Dean. “What’s wrong?” George asked.

“Look,” Dean said. “I know you probably don’t like the dude. And with good reason.”

Anne cocked her head at him. “Which dude? Of whom do you speak?

”Thomas Cromwell,” I answered.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “We, uh, think he might have been a Man of Letters himself.”


	18. Following Orders

Anne and George were silent as Dean told them about how I had brought him into my memory of George’s execution—about how he had watched George die. In fact we were all quiet; I think we all understood that both Boleyns needed a moment to digest that.

“So,” George said at last, “what did you think of my speech?”

Dean managed a smile. “It was good—real good. And I understood it all.”

“You did?” Sam looked surprised.

“Yeah. I’m not as dumb as I look, Sammy.”

“No, that’s—” Sam rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just that their accent is strange to us and the wording is hundreds of years out of date.”

“Yeah, I know what you meant.” Dean looked thoughtful. “Except the wording isn’t that strange, once you get used to it. It’s like when we watched that Shakespeare film—the one I liked okay.”

“ ** _Henry V_**. The Branagh version.”

“Right. At first it’s all weird but then you get the hang of it and after a while you don’t even notice.”

Anne looked at her brother. “I don’t know what you said.” Her voice was uneven—to her, it must have felt like this only happened recently. “They told me you spoke well, that you stood firm in the Gospel, but . . .”

George let out a breath that was halfway between a chortle and a sigh. “I don’t think I have it in me to repeat it now. Perhaps Dean can summarize.”

“He never confessed to sleeping with you or treason or any of that,” Dean told Anne. “He said he was condemned by the law, but he never said he was guilty. But then he said he was a sinner—and he made himself sound like the worst sinner ever. But Cas said that’s a normal Christian thing, especially for reformers.”

Anne and George both smiled at that. “I suppose it is,” Anne said. “Go on.”

“Uh, he told all the people of the court not to be—I don’t know, not to let the glamour of it fool them, I guess. And then he said that he was a great reader of the Gospel, but he didn’t really follow it like he should have. And that one follower was worth three readers.” Dean turned to George. “That’s basically it, right?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“But he said it—I don’t know.” Dean paused, groping for the right words. “He made it powerful. All the people there were hanging on his words.”

Anne looked at her brother, her eyes shining. “If Dean found it so moving, I think you must have done very well.”

George winked at her. “Judging from the research Sam has been doing, I can say the same of you. And even poor Jane, when she met her end.”

“Poor Jane?” Dean asked. “Your wife?”

“Yes.” George swallowed. “Sam found out that, ah, she was also beheaded on Henry’s orders, years later. And for—well, let’s just call it a piece of foolishness. I don’t know what she was thinking.”

“She helped another one of Henry’s wives have an affair under his nose,” Sam explained.

“And I don’t judge her harshly for that,” Anne said. “It was foolish, but perhaps seeing Henry cuckolded was her revenge on our behalf.”

“Huh,” Charlie said. “So you two both liked Jane?”

“Yes, of course,” Anne said.

George shrugged. “We had a decent marriage. Any problems in it were more my fault than hers.”

Charlie bit her lip. “But I’ve done my own research. A lot of people think she gave information on you two to Cromwell. Information that he used as evidence against you in your trials.”

“Of course she did,” George said. “He questioned her and terrified her, no doubt, even if he wasn’t allowed to torture her. But I can’t imagine her lying and saying we were sleeping together. I think she told him that Anne and I had made disparaging remarks about the king’s virility.”

Anne gave an elegant little snort. “Which, in fairness, we had.”

“Right. And Cromwell would have said we had regardless,” George said. “At any event, I don’t blame Jane for anything she might have said to Cromwell under duress. Even if it wasn’t physical duress.”

“Wow.” Charlie’s face was filled with compassion. “I can’t imagine how you all survived the Tudor court as long as you did. Henry—he had Cromwell killed too, didn’t he?”

“Eventually, yes, according to Sam’s research,” Anne answered. She didn’t bother to disguise the malicious satisfaction in her voice.

“But you say he might have been a Man of Letters,” George said.

Dean shrugged. “We don’t know for sure. But he had the emblem on his ring.”

“So we need you to tell us everything you know about Cromwell,” I said.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Then we’re all going to do a shitload of research. If he was a Man of Letters, something here must say so.”

 

~*~

 

We spent the next three days in grueling research, delving further into the Bunker’s archives than any of us had before. Part of the problem was not knowing exactly what we were looking for—the straightforward records of members only stretched back to the early nineteenth century. Before that time, mentions of members in the various journals and such seemed to be incidental rather than systematic.

Anne and George provided all the information on Cromwell that they could think of—things that seemed to be of import, and things that seemed hardly worth mentioning. But their knowledge of his life before he came into Wosley’s service was sketchy. He was rumored to have been a mercenary and ruffian, but no one knew for sure. As for his time afterward . . . it wasn’t as if he had discussed the Men of Letters with outsiders. And he certainly hadn’t spent his time talking about ghosts and vampires and demons and the like.

The work went on and on. Sam, Charlie and George thrived on the research. Dean hated it. Anne and I fell somewhere in between.

But there was compensation for all the hard work. At night, bleary eyed and exhausted, Dean and I would retreat to our room, strip down and lie down beside each other. Near to each other. Pressing against each other. Sometimes just to sleep, sometimes to explore and, sometimes, well, to experiment.

Judging by Dean’s reaction on the third night, this particular experiment had gone very well. He came hard again—in one shattering jolt—and moaned in pleasure as I licked up all the evidence.

“Damn, Cas,” he said, but not in exasperation. He sounded happy, satiated and impressed.

I shifted so that I was staring at his face instead of his spent penis. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Hell, yeah. But where did that come from? How did you, um, even know how?”

“I didn’t know how. But you ordered me to do this.” I couldn’t keep a bit of pride from creeping into my voice. “So I made it up as I went.”

He blinked. “I ordered you?”

“A long time ago, admittedly. I distinctly remember you saying, ‘You know what? Blow me, Cas.’”

Dean stared at me and then burst out laughing. “Oh man. That was a very long time ago. I don’t think you even knew what a blow job was back then.”

I smiled down at him as I trapped his wrists in my hands. “I knew. It just—didn’t have any particular meaning to me, other than part of the silly, boring sexual rituals that humans sometimes partook in.”

“Silly and boring, huh?” He glanced at one of his wrists. “Is that why you’re holding me down? ‘Cause you’re bored to tears?”

“No. I’m holding you down—because I can.” I raised my eyebrows in a way that I hoped was flirtatious.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Maybe I’d like you for a pet.”

“You would, huh? You called me your pet once before.”

I stared at him, confused, until I remembered the exact moment he was referring to. I let go of him and rolled off to the side of the bed, suddenly sick to my stomach.

“Damn it, Cas.” For once, I think he was cursing himself more than he was cursing me. “Listen, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I deserved that.”

He sighed. Then I felt him shift and gather me up in his arms so that I was spooned against him, my back to his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“After I was . . . bad, I told you that I wanted to redeem myself to you.”

“Yeah.”

“Did I ever succeed in that? Did I ever—have you ever thought of me the way you did before? Back when I raised you from perdition, I mean, and helped you stop the apocalypse?”

That earned me another sigh. “Cas, neither of us is who we were back then.”

I fell silent, digesting that. Once I had been someone Dean could look up to. A rock he could cling to. A worthy agent of my Father. But not now.

“Listen.” Dean pulled me even closer. “I cared for you back then, Cas. I loved you, even. Partly as a friend and a brother. And partly—well, partly the way someone is supposed to love their guardian angel, I guess. But what we have now? This couldn’t have happened back then.”

I thought that over. “Why not? You made suggestive remarks to me back then.”

“Yeah.” He scoffed. “To piss you off.”

I smiled a little. “Mostly they confused me.”

He chortled as he kissed the back of my head. “Yeah, I know. That was almost as good as pissing you off.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Dean. Why not?”

“Cas, you might have rebelled back then.” I felt him shrug. “Or not. Maybe you were really doing just what God wanted. But, anyway—look, you didn’t really fall until you decided to play God yourself. And then—fuck, you fell hard. And I’m not justifying what you did or saying it was worth it . . . but it closed some of the distance between us, you know?”

“You saw us as distant before that?”

“Fuck, yeah. You were all righteous, even when you were questioning or thought you were rebelling.  You had all this hardcore, unshakable faith. And you were millions of years old on one hand and still like a child on the other.”

“I’m still millions of years old.”

He snorted. “Yeah, and still pretty much like a child. But you’re different now, too. You’re more—you’re more human.”

“But I don’t—Dean, I don’t always feel like one of you.”

“I know. I don’t expect you to. Look, you’re something in between an angel and a human. And, believe me, I can guess how much that must suck.”

“It’s the free will that makes a difference,” I said slowly. “I didn’t really understand it at first. I didn’t realize that . . . that it’s a terrible thing as well as a wonderful thing.”

Dean snorted again. “Yeah, well, welcome to humanity.”

I elbowed him as a new thought struck me. “You didn’t like me at first. When we first met. Well, no, not when we first met. It was after I raised you from Perdition. But since you don’t remember that—”

“I know what you mean. Cut me a break, Cas. It didn’t take me long to like you. In fact, I know just when it happened.”

“When?”

“It was right after you brought me back in time to see how things had happened for my parents. You knew that I couldn’t fix things. And you were smart enough not to talk about it. You just put your hand on my shoulder and—”

He broke off and released me.

I turned around as he sat straight up. “Dean? What is it?”

“You brought me back in time,” he said.

“Yes. For an angel, time is considerably more fluid than for a human. That doesn’t mean we can change the past.”

“I know. But that doesn’t matter. We don’t need to change it. We just need to question it.”

I cocked my head. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you get it? We need to question Cromwell, Cas. One Man of Letters to another.”


	19. The Wrong Choice

"You want Cas to bring you back in time?" Charlie, for once, looked flabbergasted.

Dean shrugged. “He has before.”

“Not all the way to the Tudor period.” Sam turned to me, his hazel eyes narrowing in concern. “Cas, can you actually do this?”

“Not easily, but I can manage it. I’ll just need time to recover afterward.” I swallowed. “A lot of time.”

There was a long moment of silence. Everyone was packed into our room for the daily morning meeting of the new and improved Men of Letters—although this time Anne had brought in four cushions for the floor and George had brought in coffee for everyone. Charlie had attempted to snag a seat on the bed again, but Dean booted her. So she was back on the floor, on the second comfiest cushion. Anne had claimed the comfiest.

"But—” Charlie broke off, as if her brain was still stammering at the thought of actual time travel. Or perhaps time travel back that far.  "We don't even know that Cromwell was really a Man of Letters.”

“Actually, I found something,” Sam announced. “A reference to Richard Wellyfed, who was expected to become a Man of Letters one day by virtue of the fact that his uncle was one.”

“Richard Wellyfed,” George repeated. “That’s the boy who—”

“Changed his surname to Cromwell,” Anne finished for him. “In honor of his uncle Thomas.”

“Right,” Sam said. “Richard was Thomas Cromwell’s nephew by his sister. The kid was also the great grandfather of Oliver Cromwell—so Thomas Cromwell was related to Oliver, through his sister’s line.”

Anne and George both stared blankly at him.

Sam grinned.  “When you two catch up with English history, you’ll get it.”

“We don’t care about this Oliver dude, right?” Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. “No. We care about Richard. He worked with his uncle Thomas Cromwell and, like Anne said, even changed his last name to Cromwell. And the document I found says he had legacy status with the Men of Letters because of his uncle.”

Dean grunted. “So we got to assume that the uncle they’re talking about is Thomas.”

“Right.”

“Do you have this document, Sam?” Charlie asked.

He did—Sam had come prepared. He fished it out of his computer bag. “It’s a nineteenth century copy of an eighteenth century copy of a sixteenth century original,” he explained.

“Wow,” Dean deadpanned. “Sounds reliable.”

“It’s the best I got, okay?”

“All right,” Charlie said. “Even if Cromwell really was a Man of Letters—what are you going to do when you see him?”

“Question him,” Dean answered. “Look, a Man of Letters helps fake evidence against Anne and George—he helps get them executed. And then, almost five hundred years later, they end up with the only surviving Men of Letters?”

“Thanks to Cas,” Sam said. “Cas, are you sure you had no connection to Cromwell?”

I considered his question carefully, in case I had missed something. “None that I know of, except through Anne and George.”

Sam frowned. “Is he one of those people with the spiritual mojo to see an angel in its real form?”

“No,” Dean answered.

We all looked at him.

Dean just shrugged. “Well, he didn’t notice Cas up on the scaffold when George was executed.”

“But presumably Cas didn’t try to reveal himself to him either,” Charlie mused.

“I didn’t. But I don’t think he has the, uh, spiritual mojo.” It was my turn to shrug. “Although I’ve been wrong about these things before.”

Dean snorted at that. “Yeah.”

Anne raised her eyebrows at him.

“He thought I had the mojo,” Dean explained. “Turned out not so much. And you know that. You two have even seen it for yourselves: when Cas reveals himself, me and Sammy have to avert our eyes.”

“Yes, I know.” Anne’s dark eyes were thoughtful. “But you’re a righteous man regardless.”

“Which is problematic, especially to those of us who are sympathetic to Luther,” George added. “You are not a man of faith—either in the sense of a set of beliefs or in the sense of an abiding trust in God. You’re righteous because of the things you’ve done.”

“Dude,” Sam said. “I would love to have another round of the faith-versus-works debate, but now’s not the time.”

George grinned. “Right. Well, let’s talk about our old friend Cromwell, then—”

“Wait. You two both have faith.” Dean turned to me. “Is that what makes the difference? Is that why they can see you, but I have no idea what you really look?”

“No,” I answered. “Sam is a man of faith, yet he can’t see my true form either.”

Sam glanced up at me. “Uh—I’m not exactly a man of faith.”

I stared at him, surprised at his lack of self-knowledge. “You are. Not in the sense of a set of beliefs, perhaps. But your trust in some sort of guiding Providence is firm.”

Dean snorted. “That’s true, man. You always act as if something out there still gives a damn.”

“I thought as much.” Anne looked supremely satisfied as she elbowed her brother.

George held up his hands. “I never said otherwise.”

“Um, should we maybe get back to Cromwell?” Charlie looked up from her laptop and stared pointedly at each of us in turn.

“Yes, we should,” George agreed. “Castiel, how many of us can you bring back? Does the task become more difficult with more people?”

“Yes. And a trip like this is not without danger. The more of you I need to protect on the way, the more difficult it becomes. I would prefer to take only one person. And even then I cannot guarantee that person’s safety. Not one hundred percent.”

“Must it be Dean?” Anne asked. “George and I are far more familiar with Cromwell. And we know the language and customs of our time.”

“Wait!” Charlie stared at Dean. “Wait, are we going to let Cromwell know that Anne and George got resurrected?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said slowly. “Hell, there would be a certain shock value to sending either of the Boleyns. I mean, assuming we’re aiming for a date after their executions. But—”

“It can’t be you, Anne.” Sam shifted a little and placed his hand on top of hers. “Even Cas won’t be able to stop you from trying to scratch Cromwell’s eyes out.”

Anne opened her mouth to object, but thought better of it. “There is that.” She turned to Dean. “Then perhaps my brother? He’s arrogant and disdainful—that always annoys Cromwell—but he knows how to keep his temper in check.”

George rolled his eyes. “Don’t hold back, sis. Tell us what you really think of me.”

Charlie laughed. “Wow. How long have you been practicing that line, George?”

“Since I heard Dean use it on Sam. Although he used the term ‘bro,’ of course.”

Dean tipped an imaginary hat at him. “Pretty good delivery. But this conversation is over. I’m the one who’s going.”

But I was thinking over Anne’s words. “No, Dean,” I said slowly. “You’re not.”

First Dean raised his eyebrows at me, surprised at my little rebellion. Then he stared at me for a long moment, measuring my determination. Finally he turned to the rest of the group. “Everyone out,” he said. “Me and mine angel here are going to have a little chat.”

 

~*~

 

“What the fuck, Cas?” Dean folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the door, which he had shut tight against any intruders. “Suddenly you’re not on board with this plan?”

I was still sitting on the bed, cross-legged. I rested my hands on my knees as I stared at him, trying to figure out if he was just pissed off or if there was something more to it.

There was something more. I could see the fear that was ever-present in his soul rolling close to the surface in small, breaking waves. But not his fear of being alone. It was something else. Something . . . .

“Cas!”

I blinked. “What?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Dude, what the hell are you seeing when you stare at me like that?”

“Your soul. It’s troubled.  You’re frightened—but it’s something different than you’re usual fear of abandonment.”

“Cas . . . fuck, man.” He scrubbed his face with his fingers and then looked me in the eye. “How about we teach you to keep some of your insights to yourself?”

I ignored that. “You don’t think you’re prepared to lead this group. You think you’re inadequate.”

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. Why the fuck do you think I want you on board with this?”

“I am on board with your plan. But Dean, you’re not the best choice here.”

“You think I’m going to send Anne or George back? No way. They’re not fully trained hunters, either of them. They don’t know as much about the Men of Letters yet. And I don’t trust them to keep their heads—uh, no pun intended—while they’re questioning Cromwell.” He paused. “Besides, they helped put me in charge. If I’m going to be the leader here—look, man. This is my responsibility.”

“I agree with your decision not to send Anne or George back.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “So Sam or Charlie? No.”

“Why not?”

He stared up at the ceiling and then back down at me. “You know what? I’m not going to logic this out with you. I’m just going to tell you that you’re taking me.”

“Dean,” I said slowly, “the last time you refused to logic something out with me, I disobeyed you anyway.”

He grunted. “You were going to disobey no matter what I said, you were so convinced that you were right. And how’d that work out for you?”

I felt my vessel’s face heat up. “Not . . . not well. I should have obeyed you then. But this is different.”

Dean watched me for a moment and then stepped over to the bed. After looking down at me for a few more seconds, he climbed up and sat opposite me. “Listen, if I’m going to run this group, Cas, I need your support, okay?”

“I do support you. And I think you’re the best choice to be in charge. But I’m still you’re guardian. I still have an obligation to point out your mistakes.”

“How about you watch my back? How about that’s what you do as my guardian?”

I squared my shoulders as I felt my vessel stiffen. “I will watch your back! But I’m not going to keep quiet when you’re making a stupid decision.”

He looked away for a moment and then back at me. “All right. Fine. Spill. Why don’t you want to take me?”

“Sam and Charlie are both trained hunters. Plus, either of them could—well, learn enough to fit in with the Tudor court, at least long enough to get to Cromwell. They both know the history of the Men of Letters now. Much more than you do.”

“So you think one of them should go because they’re both smarter than me? Cas, that just proves my point. If anything goes wrong, I’m the one who’s most expendable.”

I sighed. “You are not expendable. And they’re not smarter than you. They’re just better at academics. And that’s only one type of—of being smart.” I paused. "Besides, neither of them saw George executed. You’re in the same position as the Boleyns. What you witnessed might compromise your ability to keep your head."

“It won't. Dude, I’ve worked with plenty of, uh, mine enemies. Meg, Crowley—it’s a long list.”

That much was true. Still, I knew in my vessel’s gut that this decision was wrong. “Perhaps we should examine my memories of Anne’s execution and see if—”

“No.”

“But—”

“I saw George die, okay? And we found out what we needed to about Cromwell. I don’t need to see Anne die too.”

I fell silent at that. He didn’t offer any further explanation. But I suppose he didn’t need to; in the relatively short span of his life thus far, he’d seen too many of his friends murdered. And that's what Anne's death had been, just like her brother's: judicial murder.

“Listen, Cas.” Dean put his hands over mine. “I hear your objections, but I’m overriding them. You going to do as I say?”

“Dean, you’re wrong on this!”

“No, I’m not. Now will you trust me the way you should have back then?”

Back before I had fallen so hard, he meant. Back before I assumed I could handle monsters that God had locked away. Back before I had decided to play God myself.

What was I supposed to say to him? Once, I had the moral authority to take him to task. But I had sacrificed that through my own pride and stupidity.

So I relented. “Fine, Dean.”

He looked relieved as he squeezed my hands. “Good. Now let’s get dressed and get some breakfast.”


	20. Lessons in Manipulation

“Castiel? Wouldst thou tell us what’s troubling thee?”

I smiled at Anne as she took a seat on the staircase beside me.  I enjoyed the playful way she and George wove thees and thous into their modern speech, making them seem intimate friends with all of us. Which, I suppose, they were.

“Yes.” George seated himself one step lower. “Spillest thy guts.”

“Dean is adamant that I take him to see Cromwell. I don’t believe he’s the correct choice, but he refuses to budge.” I took a deep breath. “I think he sees himself as the most expendable person here.”

“No,” George said. “Anne and I are far more expendable.”

She nodded. “It’s true. We’ve only just arrived. And we don’t even know if we belong here. He should send one of us back.”

“That’s not going to happen. And I agree with him there.”

The siblings exchanged glances. But to my surprise they didn’t argue . . . and that made me nervous. “What are you two plotting?”

George grinned. “I don’t think it’s plotting, exactly. It’s just that—well, if Dean is determined not to pick one of us, we expect compensation.”

I looked back and forth between them. “Compensation?”

Anne bit her lip, as if trying to figure out how to explain it to me. “Most people don’t like saying no to someone they care about. George and I, naturally, are arrogant enough to think that Dean cares about us.”

I smiled a little. “He does.”

“Right,” George picked up the thread. “So Dean will feel a little guilty about not picking one of us, even if he thinks he’s doing the right thing. Therefore, it’s the perfect time to ask him for something else. He’ll agree—even if it’s not something he really wants to agree to—just to make us feel better.”

“I see.” And I did; it made a strange sort of sense. “You two are very good at manipulating people.”

“Yes,” Anne agreed. “Charlotte says it’s our super power.”

“Well, Charlie is usually right.” I cupped my chin in my hand. “Do either of you know how I can manipulate Dean into choosing Sam or Charlie?”

“Can’t you just, ah, command him?” George asked. “Thou art an angel of the Lord, Castiel.”

I shook my head. “I had the moral authority to command him once. He—he didn’t always listen to me back then, but sometimes he did. And he always gave my words weight. But I squandered that authority. He doesn’t trust me that way anymore.”

The siblings exchanged glances again.

“Ah, Castiel?” George said.

“Yes?”

“You know both my sister and me. Do you think either of us ever had a shred of moral authority?”

I stared at them.

“We didn’t.” Anne placed a hand on top of mine. “But that never stopped us from issuing commands.”

George shifted so that he could look me in the eyes. “You let Dean know that you respect his authority—that we all respect his authority. But when it comes to using your, ah, angelic mojo, you have the final word.”

Anne squeezed my hand. “And that would be a good time to remind him that you’re still the angel who raised him from perdition. Even if you’ve failed him since.”

“And you want to look intimidating when you say this.” George pointed a finger at me. “But not too intimidating—enough to make him think, but not enough to, ah . . .”

“Piss him off?” I asked. “Or, worse, blind him?”

“Exactly,” George said.

“And,” Anne added triumphantly, “try to work in a reminder that if he dies, you believe God will put an end to your existence."

George widened his eyes at her. “Nan, that's low. Even for us.”

“Perhaps. But it will work.”

“Probably," he admitted. "But before it comes to that, see if you can’t, ah, arouse him, Castiel. In, um, whatever mystical way would best seem to accomplish that.”

Anne winked at me. “Yes. Try to end this particular argument in bed. But first make sure Dean agrees with thee. Then allow him to be as dominant as he pleases in bed.”

“Is he dominant in bed?” George asked me.

Anne looked at her brother in surprise. ‘You don’t think he is?”

“I’d wager he’s the sort who likes to let go of command behind closed doors.”

“I suppose.” Anne looked thoughtful. “Even so, he’ll want to dominate after conceding this argument.”

“True.”

I swallowed. “I’m not sure if I can do this.”

“Thou canst do this, Castiel,” Anne encouraged me.

“Yes,” George agreed. “I promise thee. Now go find Dean.”

 

~*~

 

Dean stretched and circled his shoulders before collapsing down on our bed. “So what did you want to talk about, Cas?”

I stayed standing, wondering why my vessel seemed so stiff and awkward. And wishing I was as practiced as the Boleyns at the art of manipulation.

“Cas?” Dean prompted.

“Ah, Dean, I want you to know that I respect your authority here.” I stopped, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Uh, thanks. And?”

“I believe you are the right choice to lead the new and improved Men of Letters.”

“Yeah. You said that before. What’s going on, man?”

“Dean, I—” I broke off, replaying my conversation with George and Anne in my mind. Right. Intimidate Dean. Enough to make him think, but not enough to piss him off. I took a deep breath. “Although I have failed you, Dean—and although I have fallen—I am still an angel of the Lord.”

Dean just stared at me.

I swallowed. “Or so I believe, since God seems to keep resurrecting me. Presumably to serve as your guardian. And even if God has abandoned us, well, I’m still a powerful seraph. And my, uh, angelic mojo isn’t yours to command.”

Dean pushed himself off the bed and back onto his feet. “Cas, why does it sound like you’re reading from a script?”

I shifted. “We did not come up with a formal script—” 

“We?”

Damn. “I, uh, was speaking with Anne and George earlier.”

“That explains it.” Dean shook his head and scoffed at the same time. “Let me guess. They want you to convince me to send you and one of them back to Cromwell instead of you and me.”

“No. No, Dean, I made it clear that I agreed with you—neither of them should be your choice.”

He just stared at me, as if he knew there was more. Which in fairness, there was.

“They, uh, intend to make their disappointment clear and guilt you into approving some other request of theirs—something they don’t think you’d have agreed to otherwise.”

“Huh.” Dean looked a little impressed. “Good tactic.”

“Yes. Charlie says manipulation is their super power.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, no kidding. So what’s this other request of theirs?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

He didn’t look upset at that.  “Guess I’ll find out soon enough. Meanwhile, about this script you three came up with—”

“There is no script!” I paused to take a deep breath. “Dean, they just . . .”

“Helped you figure out how to manipulate me?”

“No!”

He gave me a look.

“Well, yes.” I’m almost certain my vessel was blushing. “A little.”

“Okay.” Dean folded his arms over his chest. “What are you supposed to do next, according to Anne and George?”

“Intimidate you. Enough to make you respect me, but not enough to piss you off.”

His expression changed. He still wasn’t angry, but he looked a little surprised. And a little . . .  a little hurt, actually. “You think I don’t respect you?”

“You have no reason to now. I’ve lied to you. I’ve abused my powers. I’ve squandered whatever moral authority I might once have held . . .”

“Cas, stop.” He let his arms drop back to his side. “Look, I keep telling you. We’ve both done things we regret. And you don’t need to intimidate me. Think I don’t know how much more powerful you are than me?”

“I think, Dean, that you believe you’re a better judge than I am of how to use my grace.”

“Cas—”

“Please hear me out.”

He stared at me for a long moment. “Okay.”

“Dean, I—I know there have been times when I should have obeyed you. But however many mistakes I’ve made, I’m still the one who raised you from perdition. I kept your soul safe as I brought you out. And I rebuilt your physical form to house it—but your soul is still in my care. And when you want me to use my grace for something as dangerous as time travel, I have a say in how we accomplish that.”

It was hard to interpret Dean’s expression—hard, even, to see how his soul was reacting, for it seemed oddly quiet and at peace for the moment. “Wow,” he said at last. “You sure that wasn’t from a script?”

“I’m sure. We only discussed what I should say in broad strokes.”

He smiled. “Okay. So you were supposed to make that speech and then intimidate me. Was there more, or was I supposed to give in at that point?”

I sighed. “Does that mean you’re not giving in?”

“Come on, Cas. Spill. How was the rest of this supposed to go down?”

“You were supposed to give in by the time I resorted to intimidation.” I paused, wondering if it was really wise to continue. But I felt obliged to, at this point. “And then, if necessary, I was supposed to remind you that perhaps God will extinguish me when you die.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Fuck.”

“Yes. That was Anne’s idea. I think she thought it would help you see yourself as less expendable—though George thought it was low. But they both believed it would be effective.”

“They got a point. So was that it?”

“No. After that, I was supposed to seduce you and let you dominate me in bed.”

It’s hard to describe Dean’s reaction to that. He looked like he wanted to be angry but couldn’t stop himself from finding the whole thing . . . how would he put it? Freaking hilarious.

“So the Boleyns had this all planned out for you, huh?” he asked. “Did they just want me to top or were they thinking belts and handcuffs?”

My mind stammered at the thought of me and Dean and that sort of  . . . paraphernalia. “We didn’t discuss the matter in that level of detail.”

“No? I’m actually surprised.”

“Well, there was some disagreement between Anne and George as to whether you enjoy being dominant in bed,” I explained, trying to recover. “George thought you’d prefer to give up control behind closed doors. I don’t know if Anne was convinced, but they both thought you’d want to dominate after this conversation regardless.”

“They did, huh? Awesome.” He looked straight into my eyes—not angrily, but intently. “So did you venture an opinion?”

“No. I honestly don’t know your preferences yet.”

“Yeah. I guess we really haven’t—we haven’t had those talks yet.” He sat back down on the bed and patted the space beside him. “Come here.”

I walked over to the bed and cautiously took a seat at his side.

Dean placed a hand on my shoulder. “So you really went to Anne and George for advice about how to manipulate me?”

I sighed and stared down at my hands. “Yes.”

“So . . . you really think it shouldn’t be me? I’m not the one you should take to see Cromwell.”

“It shouldn’t be you, Dean.” I forced myself to look up at him. “You’re not the best choice. And it’s your job, as our commander, to choose the best person for this task.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. If you feel this strongly—well, then fine. I’ll concede.”

“Dean, I—thank you.”

“That means it’s going to be Sam or Charlie.” He sighed and let his hand drop. “Just tell me how the fuck I’m supposed to decide which of them is more expendable.”


	21. Family Duties

We all ordered out for Chinese that night. It was Anne and George’s first experience with the white cardboard take-out boxes and chopsticks. They seemed fascinated by both—so much so that they didn’t notice the speculative look Dean was giving them. Well, not at first. Anne finally felt the weight of his stare.

“Dean?”

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Neither you or George are going back to question Cromwell. But you already know that. And so you got something else you want to ask me for?”

Sam and Charlie sent each other confused glances. But both Boleyns managed to look like the picture of innocence.

“Come on, guys.” Dean said. “You didn’t think Cas was going to tell me all about your little conversation?”

George sighed. “We did realize that Castiel might, perhaps, need further lessons in the fine art of manipulation.”

“But not that he would turn traitor.” Anne sent a mock glare at me.

Sam raised his eyebrows at Anne. “You two tried to teach Cas how to manipulate Dean?”

“We made the attempt, yes.”

“Seriously?” Sam looked disappointed in her. “You know he’s like the worst liar ever, right?”

Charlie looked more forgiving as she waved her chopsticks in the general direction of the Boleyns. “They’re only trying to pass on their super power.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, well, good luck on that. Lying ain’t his forte.”

Once again, Sam and Dean were ignoring the fact that I lied to their faces and fooled them for months back when I was seeking Purgatory . . .  but I let that pass.

George, meanwhile, was pulling off a shocked expression. “We didn’t encourage him to lie.”

“Manipulation is not the same as lying,” Anne agreed.

Sam made one of those half-and-half faces, indicating that he sort of agreed and sort of didn’t.

Dean, however, was more generous. “All right, that’s fair. And good, cause we only allow little white lies here—and only for the sake of peace-in-the-household.” He shot me a proud look, showing off the fact that he remembered our conversation in the cathedral.

I gave him an affectionate smile in return.

Sam looked at his brother and then at me. “Is he talking about the principle of _shalom bayit_?”

I nodded, impressed by his knowledge.

Dean, on the other hand, rolled his eyes. “Of course Sammy knows the freakin’ Hebrew for it.” Then he stared at his brother. “Why do you know the freakin’ Hebrew for it? Aaron?”

“Aaron? Dude, he’s only just learning this stuff.”

“Rufus?”

“Nope.” Sam grinned. “Remember the rabbi back in Dearborn? Well, you didn’t meet him, but I told you about him.”

“The one who caught you trying to steal the ram’s horn from his synagogue?”

“The shofar, yeah.”

Charlie put her chopsticks down. “You tried to rob a synagogue?”

“It was in a good cause,” Dean said.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Anyway, I got back in touch with him in order to introduce him to Aaron. We kept up on some emails and, well, I learned a few things.”

“You stayed in touch with a rabbi after you tried to steal from his synagogue, Sam?” Charlie beamed at him. “That’s weirdly touching.”

“And speaking of men of the cloth . . . .” George paused to wipe soy sauce off his mouth. “Anne and I were thinking that we, ah, should have a chapel here. In the bunker.”

“Yes.” Anne nodded and helped herself to more rice. “We have the room, Dean. We could clear out one area.”

Dean blinked. “That’s what you two wanted to ask me for? A chapel?”

They nodded.

“Why did you think I’d say no?”

Anne gave him that patented arch look of hers. “Because you seem to cordially despise God?”

“Oh, trust me, there’s nothing cordial about it.” Dean shrugged and turned back to his food. “But you can make a chapel. Knock yourselves out.”

“We should make it interfaith, though,” Sam put in. “I mean, it can be all Christian now. But make everything removable so we can change it to Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist—whatever. You know, for visitors or new recruits or whatever.”

“Was Kevin a Buddhist?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know,” Sam answered.

“Who is Kevin?” Anne asked.

Sam smiled a little. “He was in Advanced Placement. He wanted to go to Princeton.”

“He was a good kid who never got to live his dreams,” Dean answered. “He’s dead now.”

“You know,” Sam said, “If we’re going to have a chapel, should we have a memorial wall? We could put a picture of Kevin up. And Dad and Mom. And Bobby, and Rufus and Ellen and Jo . . . .”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

I took a deep breath. “What about Meg?”

Dean gave me a look.

“Who is Meg?” George asked.

“A demon with a weird crush on Cas,” Dean answered. “A weird crush that he kind of returned.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “Are you jealous?”

To my amazement, he looked like he was seriously considering that question. “No,” he decided. “No, I’m okay with whatever weird thing you two had.”

The Boelyns were exchanging glances again. They both looked like they were trying to wrap their heads around the idea of an angel consorting with a demon.

George finally broke the silence. “Castiel, is this the Meg from the Winchester Gospels?”

“Yes, but she had—well, she hadn’t changed, exactly.” I scrunched up my vessel’s brow, trying to figure out how to explain it. “But she had reconsidered her loyalties and her purpose.”

Anne’s mouth fell open. “You two weren’t, ah, mystical together, were you?”

I shook my head. “No. I mean, we, ah—”

“They were into each other,” Dean interrupted. “But because Cas is Cas—and because he was half out of his mind at the time—nothing came of it before she died.”

I cocked my head at him. He really didn’t sound jealous. Was that just because Meg was safely dead? Or was it because he honestly didn’t care?

I felt my vessel’s stomach churn—that sack of snakes was back. Maybe he wasn’t jealous because he didn’t view us as monogamous. Was he still planning to have one night stands with random women when we were away from the bunker? We hadn’t talked about that since we became . . . intimate.

He had been faithful to Lisa, I reminded myself. So it wasn’t that Dean was incapable of monogamy.

“Maybe Meg does deserve a spot,” Sam mused, breaking me out of my thoughts. “She took good care of Cas while he was, um, incapacitated.”

Dean stared at him. “Dude! She caused the death of a lot of hunters. Of our friends.”

“Yeah. But she helped us out. And she died fighting on the right side.” Sam’s voice made it sound like he was leaning toward her inclusion now.

Dean scoffed. “Well, if she goes up there, then Benny definitely does.”

Sam nodded slowly. “Yes, he should. I owe him.  Back to the good guys though. Or the good angels: Gabriel.”

“I don’t know if I’d call him good, but yeah. We can include him.” Dean looked at me. “And, uh . . .”

“Balthazar,” I finished for him. Then I took a deep, ragged breath. “The angel I killed—one of the angels I killed—when I was bad.”

"Yes." Dean’s green eyes were intent on me, though not angry or judgmental. But heavy. "Yeah, that would be him."

Sam's hazel eyes fell on me too. I could never read him the way I could read Dean. In part because I couldn't stare into his soul in the same effortless way; I had never held and protected Sam's soul directly. 

But I don't think Sam was angry with me—and I don't think he was judging me either. He was just . . . full of sorrow. Sorrow and that strange, persistent faith in me and God and the universe in general.

Charlie cleared her throat. “So, um, should we be talking about the time travel thing? Dean, is Castiel really going to take you back to question Cromwell?”

“He’s not taking me.” Dean looked straight at his little brother. “He’s taking Sam.”

 

~*~

 

Charlie looked—well, pissed off, actually. She was sitting at the table with her arms crossed over her chest, a half-eaten box of vegetable lo mein in front of her. “Explain to us again why you chose Sam?”

“Look,” Dean said, “it came down to one of you two. Both of you are smart enough to learn how to pass in the 1500s. Both of you know all about the Men of Letters. You’re both good hunters.  And Cromwell didn’t frame either of you—and you didn’t watch George die—so both of you should be able to keep your cool around the dude. But,  you know, Sam's a guy. That might make things easier for him back then.”

“Fine. I'll cross-dress. No one will know.”

"No. Even if you could pull that off, no."

"Then why, Dean?"

“Because . . . .” Dean stared down at the table. “Fuck.”

Sam came to his brother's rescue. “Because if something goes wrong, I’m more expendable than you are.”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “That is so not—”

“It’s true.” Sam’s voice was calm and insistent. “It’s like George said before: nobody else here can do what you do. You’re a top notch hacker, Charlie. A better one than I am. We need you around to get into official files. To cover any trails we leave. To come up with fake identities for Anne and George. Identities that stick, I mean.”

“And that means what? That I’m never going out on another hunt?”

“Maybe clear cut salt and burns to keep you in practice,” Dean said. “But that’s it.”

“That’s bullshit!”

“No it isn’t.” Anne’s voice was quiet, but it carried throughout the room.

Charlie gave her a look. Her face was almost as red as her hair.

Anne pushed her carton aside and folded her hands on top of the table. “You have a duty to this family. To this organization.”

“Anne, I know your history,” Charlie shot back. “Don’t lecture me on family duty. How would you even know what that is?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” George demanded.

Charlie kept her eyes on Anne. “As far as I can tell, your father pimped out your sister to Henry VIII and tried to do the same to you—you just held out for marriage.”

Dean’s mouth fell open, but he couldn’t seem to find any words. Sam, meanwhile, shut his eyes in exasperation, as if he knew Charlie was right but couldn’t believe she’d said the words out loud.

But Anne kept calm. That was—well, astonishing, considering her legendary temper. Or maybe not so astonishing.  She was no fool; if she tried to box Charlie’s ears, Charlie would, uh, beat the crap out of her. That, I think, is the correct expression.

So even though her eyes were flashing, Anne’s voice remained steady. “My father encouraged the affair between Henry and my sister Mary, yes. And he profited from it. We all did. But pray remember that what the king wanted, he generally got. Why shouldn’t my father have profited from the inevitable?”

George looked at his sister with naked admiration. “But when Henry cast his eyes your way, you didn’t give in to the inevitable, Nan.”

She shrugged. “I convinced Father that I could sway Henry to marry me, no matter the obstacles. He believed me, so I was allowed to proceed as I saw fit.”

Charlie snorted. “Some family.”

“Our father was an ambitious man.” George turned to her with a hard look. “And so were we all. We all did our part to advance the family’s standing. That’s what we understood as our duty.”

Dean couldn’t keep himself quiet anymore. “I thought you two were all about the Reformation?”

“We were both entranced by the ideas of reform,” Anne explained. “But we didn’t understand, at first, that we would have the power to shape the king’s views on the matter.”

“Right,” George said. “We thought the pope would agree to annul Henry’s marriage to Catherine.”

“Catherine was his first wife,” Anne added for Dean’s benefit.  “It was years before we realized that we didn’t need an annulment from the pope. That we could turn Henry away from Rome entirely.”

“It was Cromwell, actually, who saw the matter most clearly,” George said.

Anne shot him a murderous look.

George just shrugged. “It was, Nan. I hate the man as much as you do. But he understood what needed to be done for to free—ah, in order to free, I mean—the English church from Rome’s vices.”

“Rome isn’t that Rome anymore.” Sam always needed to be fair. “There’s been a counter-Reformation since your day. Within the Catholic Church, I mean.”

“I know,” George said. “We read about it on Wikipedia.”

Dean grunted. “Of course you did.”

Anne turned back to Charlotte—Charlie, I mean. “This family is far worthier than the one George and I grew up in. The Men of Letters is far worthier than Henry’s court. No one here is ‘pimping’ anyone out. No one here is—is acting for the sake of their own ambition. Why wouldn’t you want to do what you do best for this cause?”

“The Boleyns are right,” I said.

Everyone stared at me. I don’t know why—was I expected not to have an opinion?

“I’m sorry, Charlie, if you happen to enjoy cutting the heads off of vamps,” I continued. “But humans don’t exist for their own enjoyment—any more than angels do. We all have a purpose. It seems that we’ve found yours . . . at least for the time being.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “It’s not that I enjoy it, Cas. It’s that I’m good at it. It’s that I can contribute as a hunter too, not just as a hacker.”

“Then you know what?” Sam reached over and put a hand on her shoulder. “Start training me—and maybe Anne—to be as good a hacker as you are. Or, hell, maybe we need to recruit someone we haven’t even thought about yet.”

Dean’s eyes hardened. “We don’t recruit people into this life, Sam.”

“Well, maybe we should start.” Sam let go of Charlie and met his brother’s gaze. “It’s like Cas said: none of us are put on this earth for our own enjoyment. There are bad things out there . . . and we can’t just wait till a random computer expert wants revenge for what some vamps did to his family.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He just kept up the staring contest with his brother—but he was the first to look away. “Damn it, Sammy,” he said. “You know how much like our father you are sometimes?”

“Uh, not sure how that applies now, but yeah. I know.” Sam sighed. “Is that good or bad?”

“Both.” Dean turned to Charlie. “You on board?”

She glared at him. “I’m a fucking Woman of Letters, right? So I’m following the orders of my fucking idiot commander.” She stood up and grabbed her carton of lo mein. “But right now, I need some fucking time to myself.”

We watched her stalk out of the room. None of us were brave enough—or foolhardy enough—to follow her.


	22. Burdens of Command

“I hate being the commander.” Dean all but spat the words out.

My heart lurched. He wasn’t really a born leader. His natural talents were better suited to a loyal, effective second-in-command. And yet, he had grown into the leadership role. Grown into it so well that  . . . well, I couldn’t imagine anyone taking his place. And I don’t think that was merely due to our profound bond.

Still, I understood why he despised the position. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

He glanced over his shoulder at me and gave me an ‘it-is-what-it-is’ shrug.

I smiled a little and placed my hands on his shoulders. He was straddling a chair backwards, shirts tossed to the side, so that I could rub his back. I complied, allowing a trace of my grace to seep into his tense, sore muscles.

He let out a soft, contented sigh. “Hmmm—that’s good, Cas. Keep going.”

I kept going. “Would you like me to speak with Charlie when I’m done?”

“Huh?”

“She said that we’re best friends,” I explained. “Perhaps I can help smooth things over for you two.”

I sensed him biting back a grin, though I’m not sure what he found so funny. “No, man, that’s okay. Making things right with Charlie is my job. And—damn. However great this feels, I should go do that now.”

He stood up and put the chair back in its corner. Then he put his shirts back on—the pullover and the flannel—and finally turned to face me. 

“Thanks, Cas. Maybe we can, ah, continue that later. Only with less clothes. And maybe on the bed.”

“Oh?” I raised my vessel’s eyebrows suggestively. “Would you also like to show me what we’re supposed to do with belts and handcuffs?”

Dean grinned and licked his bottom lip. “You know something? I just might.” He leaned forward, brushing his lips against mine. And then he left.

I took a seat on the bed and picked up the Men of Letters journal I had been working my way through. It dated only from the eighteenth century, but the author seemed obsessed with angels. There might be some nugget of information hidden within it.

I had scarcely gotten through another four pages, however, when Dean opened our door again. I frowned at his expression. “It didn’t go well?”

He snorted. “I think Charlie just taught me five new ways to say go fuck yourself.”

I smiled as I put the journal back on the shelf closest to the bed. “Perhaps she just needs more time to herself.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” He sighed as he took a seat beside me. “I really, really hate being commander.”

“I know.” I put an arm over his shoulders.

He sort of melted into me. “You know what? Tomorrow, let’s get out of here. Just you and me. We can go somewhere—anywhere—for a couple of hours. No talking about the Men of Letters or hunting or anything like that.”

“All right.” I didn’t bother hiding how flattered I felt. “But first I would like to ask you something.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

I hesitated. Dean hated having ‘talks.’ But I felt this was a necessary one. “Dean, are you still planning to indulge in random hook ups?”

He was quiet for a minute. A long minute.

I felt that sack of snakes squirm around inside my vessel’s innards. Did he still want to pick up strangers at bars? Is that why he had expressed no jealousy of Meg—because he didn’t see us as monogamous?

He didn’t answer the question. He just gave a kind of helpless shrug before turning it on me. “Ah, how do you feel about that, Cas? You think we should be exclusive?”

I stared at him. “Am I supposed to answer honestly? Or am I supposed to lie?”

He gave me this small, boyish and almost shy grin. “What did Sam call that principle?   _Shalom bayit_ , remember? Little white lies are okay to keep the peace of the household. So if I look like shit after a hunt, you can lie and tell me how fucking gorgeous I am. But about this? You tell me the truth.”

I stared at him, solemnly considering his words. “All right,” I said slowly. “If I saw you hook up with a woman you don’t even know, I think I would want to angel-air you back here, hold you down and slap your rear much harder than the pizza man did to the babysitter in that movie you said I wasn’t supposed to talk about.”

Dean’s jaw dropped.

I swallowed, unsure of his reaction, but forced myself to continue. “In fact, perhaps that is one of the scenarios that might call for a belt in the bedroom. I don’t think handcuffs would be necessary, however. I could keep you in place strictly by the force of my will.”

“Fuck,” Dean managed.

I felt my face heat up. “You said to tell the truth.”

“I did say that,” he agreed.

I peered at him, and into him, warily. There were sharp, jagged edges to his soul right now—white hot edges. Yet he didn’t seem angry. So, what . . . .  “Oh. You’re aroused.”

“Fuck, yeah. That, ah, little scenario is pretty hot, Cas. I might have to flirt with some chick just to see if you have the balls to go through with it.”

“To see if I have the balls? There is nothing wrong with the testicles of my vessel.”

“I—yeah. I’m aware of that.”

He had the strangest, most beautiful look to his face just then. I could see both amusement and that white-hot arousal swirling in the depths of his eyes. I leaned closer to him, and he reached for me at the same moment, and—

“Dean?” Charlie knocked on our door. Hard. “Dean, I’m ready to talk now.”

Dean let out a half-sigh and half moan as we pushed away from each other. “Charlie,” he called out, “you got the little sister thing down freaking perfectly, you know that?”

There were a long few seconds of silence from the other side of the door. “Um, was this a bad moment?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered. “It was. Moment’s over now, though. So you might as well come in.”

She opened the door and stuck her head inside. “Sorry. Cock-blocking is my super power. But it’s not one I can control.”

Dean didn’t look impressed. “Uh-huh. Get in here.”

He held out an arm to her. She came all the way inside and launched herself into it. Then they were both on the bed and Charlie was saying—well, a number of things in a rush. That she understood where Dean was coming from, but she hated being sidelined, and how she didn’t want her hunting training to go to waste forever.

And Dean, who seemed able to keep up with her, was assuring her that she wasn’t sidelined, and that what she did with the God-damned computers was as important as hunting.

My Father had not, in fact, damned computers or any technology associated with them, but I let that pass. I stood up and smiled down at the pair for a moment. And then I quietly left the room, careful not to simply wing off without telling Dean. 

There was plenty more research left to do.

 

~*~

 

About half an hour later, Dean found me at one of the research tables. “Charlie’s dead out on our bed.” He grabbed a seat next to me. “If she doesn’t wake up by the time we turn in, you’ll have to angel air her back to her own room.”

I smiled.

He cocked his head at me. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“Cas?”

I shrugged. “I just think it’s sweet, how our fearless commander is too tender hearted to wake up his adopted little sister.”

The look in Dean’s eyes changed. It was as if a shadow fell over them . . . or as if he was seeing a ghost.

“What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer.

“Dean?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. It looked like he was trying to shake off some unwelcome vision. No, not a vision—a memory. “Just don’t call me that, okay?”

“Call you what?”

“Fearless commander.”

“Why not?” I furrowed my brow. “I thought that was a common expression. Did I say it oddly? Or put the wrong inflection on it?”

“No.” His voice was weirdly flat. “No, you said it just right. Just—just don’t say it again, okay?”

I stared at him.

He rolled his eyes. “Do you have to make a big fucking deal out of this, Cas?”

“Not if I understood why it upset you.”

“I’m just weird about that expression, okay? That’s it.”

I cocked my head at him. “There’s more to it than that.”

“Stop!” He pointed at me.

“Stop what?”

“Soul . . .” Dean fumbled for the words he wanted. “Soul peeking. Stop peeking into my soul.”

“You can tell when I do that?”

He snorted. “Yeah. You stare at me so hard that it’s like you’re fucking me with your eyes. Which, you know, I’d be okay with now. Except that’s not what you’re really doing.”

“Dean,” I said carefully, “I won’t stop looking into your soul. I’m responsible for it. Besides, considering our current relationship . . .” I floundered for words.

“Go on.”

“I can see your soul just by looking at you, and even more so when I touch you. And sense it and feel it, and—I can’t just shut that off.”

He didn’t look particularly surprised. “Is that with everyone? Or is this a ‘profound-bond’ thing of ours?”

“With you it’s effortless. I see your soul whenever I look your way.” I looked straight at him, trying to communicate how much it meant to me to have that ability. To have his soul in my care.

“Cas . . . .”

“Let me finish, Dean.   I’m sorry that I sometimes make you uncomfortable. But I only, ah, fuck you with my eyes when I’m not sure how to interpret something you’ve said or something you’re feeling.”

Dean’s face softened. “It’s okay, buddy. But—what about with others?”

“With others . . . I can see their souls, but I have to be intentional. Deliberate. And it’s much harder to peer into them.”

“Huh.” He didn’t seem particularly bothered by this revelation. “All right. Where’s Sam? Have you seen him? Just him, I mean. I’m not asking if you’ve peered into his soul.”

He was turning the subject. I decided to let him. Whatever was bothering him about the phrase ‘fearless commander’—well, it could wait. “I believe he’s down in the shooting range with Anne and George.”

“Okay.” Dean patted my shoulder as he stood up. “Let’s go find them.”


	23. Sibling Codependency

We found George on the way down. He was clearing out the storage room that was to become our chapel.

“Are Sam and Anne still down at the firing range?” Dean asked.

George put down the box he was carrying. “As far as I know. Going to look for them? Hold a moment.” He sat down on the box and then picked up an open bottle of beer from the floor. “I’ll come with.”

Dean grinned. “Look at you, doing the heavy lifting.”

“Anne and I have adjusted to the appalling lack of servants here, thank you very much.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “But, come on. You’re a lord and all, right? And some fancy court poet?”

“I am. Or I was: Lord Rochford. And a very good poet—as good as Wyatt, some said.”

“Uh, I have no idea who Wyatt is.”

George clutched at his heart, as if Dean’s ignorance of the great poet was a personal insult. “His sonnets were a forerunner of Shakespeare’s—”

“Oh yeah.” Dean looked amazed. “I always forget that Shakespeare was actually after your time.”

“Yes, he was. Anne and I are just starting to catch up on the Bard. But back to Wyatt. He was a family friend—and, well, one of Anne’s old boyfriends. He was rounded up with the rest of us under suspicion of sleeping with Anne.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. “Was he killed?”

“No.” George’s eyes took on a faraway look. “No, Cromwell knew his family well and, for their sake, got him off. But Wyatt was there in the Tower. He saw the executions. I found out yesterday that he wrote about them: ‘These bloody days have broken my heart,’ he said in one poem.”

Dean and I looked at each other and then back at George. “I’m sorry,” Dean told him.

George grinned. “The rat bastard said I was too arrogant in another:

  _Some say, ‘Rochford, haddest thou been not so proud,_

_For thy great wit each man would thee bemoan.’_

_Since as it is so, many cry aloud_

_It is great loss that thou art dead and gone.”_

Dean smiled a little. “You two weren’t friends?”

“Oh, we had our moments. And I can forgive him for finding me too arrogant—what I can’t forgive is that, as far as I can tell, my only surviving poems ended up attributed to him.”

“Well, you ain’t so arrogant now.” Dean sounded philosophical. “Look at you: all sweaty in jeans and a t-shirt and talking like a native.”

George raised his eyebrows in that haughty way of his—but then he winked at us. “Of course.” He took a swig and then set the bottle down again. “My pride demands that I fit in, however much you peasants butcher the king’s English.”

“What about the clothes?” Dean asked.

“Oh, I approve of the clothes.” He grinned again. “I look damn hot in this.”

Dean laughed as he gave him a hand up. Then the three of us continued down to the range. But no sounds of gun shots greeted us. There were no sounds at all . . . except for a soft, almost imperceptible moan escaping from one of the target lanes.

George and I looked at each other, and then at Dean—but it was too late. He was already stalking toward the lane. We sighed in unison as we followed him.

There was no gun in sight. If Sam and Anne had been practicing at any point that night, their weapons were already safely stored away. That’s the first thing I noticed.

But I’m pretty sure the first thing Dean noticed was Sam and Anne pressed together, Anne’s back against the wall of the little booth-like structure where they were supposed to be firing from. Their lips were locked, their shirts were on the ground and their bodies were moving in tandem.

It was—well, an intriguing sight. Nothing would tear me away from Dean, but for the first time I understood why some human males had a special appreciation for female humans with long hair. Anne’s dark, thick locks spilled down her shoulders, allowing Sam to twist them through his fingers.

I shook myself a little. Anne was wearing a bra, at least—presumably one of the ones Dean had helped her pick out. And both she and Sam were still wearing jeans. No actual intercourse had occurred, then.

Despite Sam’s well developed hunter’s instincts, neither he nor Anne noticed us. I’ve noticed that sometimes even highly trained humans get caught up in the moment.

Dean cleared his throat. “We interrupting something?”

Sam and Anne broke apart—well, their mouths, at least. “Um, hey,” Sam managed. “Little privacy here, maybe?”

“Yeah, think again,” Dean answered.

George put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Ah, Dean . . . .”

Dean didn’t respond to him. He just looked at Anne and Sam in turn. “What the hell are you two thinking?”

Anne pushed Sam away, just a bit, and turned to face Dean. “Why are you angry?"

"Because this—this right here? This shouldn't be happening."

"You think it improper? Dean, my marriage to Henry can’t count for anything now. And Sam is not contracted elsewhere.”

“She’s right,” George said. “Sam and Anne are both free of any other constraints.”

“Yeah? Well how about this constraint.” Dean looked Anne straight in the face. “We don’t know for certain that you belong here.”

“Wait a minute, Dean,” Sam said. “You told us to act as if Anne and George do belong here, until we know otherwise.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I know. And we should. Except when it comes to—to this.”

George let his hand drop. “Dean, listen to me. Anne wouldn’t let things go too far before speaking with you. Or”—he paused to roll his eyes—“sending me to speak with you.”

That caught both brothers by surprise. “What?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, what?” Sam echoed.

Anne and George exchanged glances. “Dean,” Anne said slowly, “you’re the head of the family.”

“Wait a minute.” Sam stared at Anne. “You think we need Dean’s permission?”

“Yes. Of course!” She gave Sam an impatient look. “Did you mean to go behind his back?”

“No!” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Anne, we don’t have to hide anything. But we also don’t need Dean’s permission to do . . . whatever we both want to do.”

She shook her head. “Sam—”

“And as for this head of the household crap? You don’t care about that,” Sam continued. “You tried to marry Harry Percy without getting permission from his father.”

“Wait,” Dean said. “Wait—who the hell is Harry Percy?”

“Another one of Anne’s boyfriends before she caught Henry’s eye,” George explained.

“No, I didn’t get permission from Harry Percy’s father.” Anne pushed Sam’s hands away and folded her arms over her chest. “And look what happened! Cardinal Wolsey breathing fire down our necks, Harry packed off to marry that whey-faced bitch his father picked and me sent back home in disgrace.”

“Not quite your shining hour,” George agreed.

“No it wasn’t.” Her dark eyes were blazing now. “So, forgive me, Sam, but I’m not looking for another forbidden romance.”

Sam’s eyes were sympathetic, but he held his ground. “Anne, Dean doesn’t have any right to forbid it. We’re both adults. It’s just up to us.”

“I don’t care. I still want his blessing.”

“Well that’s not going to happen,” Dean said. “At least not until we have a better sense that you two”—he looked pointedly at both Boleyns—“belong here.”

Sam let out an exasperated sigh as he picked up the discarded shirts. He handed Anne’s to her and then started buttoning his own back on. “Dean,” he said when he finished, “a word in private?”

Dean gave his brother a long measuring look. “Yeah. Okay.”

Sam gestured toward the stairs. “After you.”

Anne made to follow them, but George and I stopped her.

“Let them sort this out,” George advised.

She turned her dark eyes on me. “Castiel, are they going to murder each other?”

I weighed the probabilities. “Unlikely.”

“Fists, then?” George asked.

“That’s possible.”

George sighed and turned back to his sister. “I have no objection, you know. Sam is a good man—but are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

She gave him a disdainful look. “Of course I do.”

“Nan, listen to me. Sam might seem like he’s as sweet as Harry Percy. But he has a cold side to him. I’ll wager he can be dangerous.”

“Like Henry, you mean?” She snorted. “Sam is nothing like Henry.”

I stared at her. “You’re right. Sam is no psychopath. And, yes, he is a good man, but he—he can be ruthless. Usually for the right cause, but still . . . .” I shrugged and let my voice trail off.

Anne placed a hand on my arm. “I know, Castiel.”

“You won’t be able to control him, Nan. He won’t ever be besotted the way Harry or Henry or Wyatt were.”

“I don’t want to control him.”

“Anne,” I said slowly, “Are you in love with him?”

She seemed to give that question serious consideration. “No, and he’s not in love with me either. But he’s exceptionally attractive, don’t you think? And we do like each other. And, more importantly, we’re both devoted to the same things: family and the Men of Letters. So I expect we’ll suit.”

George found nothing unreasonable about that, but I wasn’t as convinced. “Anne, humans today—at least in this culture—don’t really think in those terms. They think more in terms of romance and love than in how well they’ll suit.”

“Which no doubt explains the high number of divorces,” George said.

I smiled a little at that. “Possibly.”

“Don’t worry, Castiel.” Anne squeezed my arm. “I know what I’m about.”

Sam’s voice rang out just then, sharp and angry . . . and it was followed immediately by the sound of something crashing.

George bit back a grin as he glanced my way. “I think you underestimated their chances of committing fratricide.” 

 

~*~

 

“Dean, will you hold still and keep this on your eye?” Charlie moved closer to him on the bed, trying to force the little bag of ice on him.

“I am . . . ow! That’s cold.”

She spoke through her teeth this time. “That’s the idea.”

Dean shoved her arm aside and glared at me. “Or Cas could just heal my shiner here.”

“I could.” But I made no move to leave my spot by the wall, where I had been leaning with my arms folded over my chest ever since Dean strode back into our bedroom after his little ‘chat’ with Sam.

Dean gave me a look.

I gave him the same look back.

“What, are you on Sam’s side in this?” he demanded.

I cocked my head, considering that question. “No,” I said slowly. “No, I don’t have a side yet. But you are not seriously injured.”

He rolled his eyes and took the ice pack from Charlie. “Fine. Damn, I saw Sam’s left hook coming, too.”

Charlie shifted, pulling her knees up to her chest. “I’m on Sam’s side.”

Dean shrugged. “You would be.”

“Why shouldn’t he and Anne have some fun?”

“Anne’s not just looking for a night of fun, Charlie.” Dean collapsed back against one of the pillows. “You get that, right? Sam’s got himself into a _Paradise by the Dashboard Lights_ situation.”

Charlie turned to me. “That’s a song where a girl goes to third base with a guy and then makes him promise a forever-commitment before she sleeps with him.”

I smiled. “I understood that reference, actually.”

“Really?” Charlie raised her eyebrows at Dean.

He shrugged. “Cas knows weird factoids about music. Ask him where Blondie got her start some time.”

She looked at me with approval. “I’m impressed, Cas.”

“Anyway,” Dean said, “Anne’s not going to settle for some one night thing. Hell, according to that stuff we read she didn’t give it up to Henry for, like, seven years. And she only gave in because he was finally ready to marry her.”

“Yeah, Dean.” Charlie gave him what I think humans refer to as a ‘duh’ look. “She’s religious and she wanted to be queen. But if she’s going to hold out until Sam agrees to marry her—well, you should be happy. I don’t think Sam’s going to rush down the aisle.”

Dean grunted. “Well, there is that. Guess I can relax.”

“Yeah.” Charlie peered at him. “But why are you so worried anyway? So what if they get it on?”

“We don’t know if she belongs here, Charlie! We don’t know if she’s, you know, upsetting the natural order.”

“Is that your only concern, Dean?” I asked.

He glared at me again. “Yeah, that’s my only concern.”

I stared at him.

He looked away. “Okay, fine. It’s one of a few concerns. She’s got that weird relationship with George. And you both know that ain’t healthy . . .”

“Yeah, and Sam doesn’t know anything about weird sibling codependency,” Charlie deadpanned.

I bit back a smile—but at least we were closer, now, to the real reason Dean objected. Not that he was ready to admit to the real reason, yet. Not even to himself.

“Okay, look. It’s more than that with them.” Dean shook his head in a way that suggested he was trying to erase a particular image from his brain. “I mean, I get it. Anne and George never actually did anything. Fine, I buy that. But you’ve seen the way they are with each other. You don’t think they wanted to? At some point in their lives?”

“George didn’t look at Anne with any special desire tonight, Dean,” I pointed out. “Not even when she was standing there in just her jeans and her bra.”

“I know,” he said. “He didn’t even blink, which is almost weirder. But, anyway, trust me on this one, Cas.”

Charlie just shrugged. “So what?”

Dean narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you mean, so what?”

“Oh, please, Dean.” She shifted again and pushed herself off the bed.

“Please what? What are you talking about?”

Suddenly I knew what she was about to say—well, the gist of it, anyway. I moved toward her, shaking my head. I didn’t understand much about human psychology, but I knew this was one thing Dean had to figure out for himself.

But she ignored me as she walked over to the door and pulled on the handle.  “Don’t tell me that your thoughts about Sam never once dived into Lannister territory.”

I think that was meant to be her parting shot on the way out the door. Unfortunately, Sam was standing on the other side of it, poised to knock. And I was fairly certain he had heard that whole sentence.

I didn’t need to look at Dean to know that his face had turned white. And I could picture his expression perfectly as I heard him whisper one of his few direct prayers to my Father:

“Fuck it, God. Just shoot me now.”


	24. Really Awkward Conversations

There was an awkward moment of silence as Charlie, her face beet red, stepped back inside the room. But at least that motion allowed Sam to enter.

“Um, Sam, I was just teasing Dean—” she began.

Dean snorted as he sat up on the bed, keeping the ice pack in place . . . possibly as a means of forestalling more violence. “Yeah,” he said. “And she has no idea what she’s talking about anyway.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dude, I know exactly what she’s talking about. And I’m fine with it.”

Dean stared at him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m the closest person in the world to you, right?” Sam stared straight into his brother’s eyes. Well, eye, I suppose, since one was still covered by the ice.

“I don’t know.” Dean looked him up and down. “You didn’t grip me tight and raise me from perdition, dude.”

Sam gave him a look. “Seriously? I get the profound bond and everything. And I’m really happy for you and Cas. But you’re choosing him over me now?”

Dean broke into a wide grin. “I’m kidding, Sammy. Yeah, you’re the closest person in the world to me.” He glanced my way. “Sorry, Cas.”

I stayed where I was, still leaning against the wall, still with my arms folded across my chest. But I felt myself smile a little and start to relax. “I’m not upset. I’ve never been jealous of your relationship with Sam.”

Dean’s expression was suddenly tender. “I know. Thanks, man.” He turned back to his little brother. “So, okay. If the chick-flick moment is over—”

“It’s not.” Sam crossed the room and took a seat on the edge of the bed.

Charlie, meanwhile, started for the door . . . but then changed her mind, as if she thought the conversation here would be too good to miss.

“Look,” Sam said, “Since I’m the closest person in the world to you, I’d be pissed, man, if you didn’t crush on me at some point.”

Dean blinked. Then he set the ice pack down so he could blink with both eyes. “What?”

“I know you’re bi, Dean,” Sam continued. “I’ve known since forever.”

“I’m not bi. Cas is—he’s just a weird, mystical exception, okay? And he’s not even human. And he’s probably junkless in his true form.” He paused and turned back to me. “Are you junkless in your true form?”

Trust Dean to get distracted by that question. “You wouldn’t understand my true anatomy. And it’s irrelevant to this discussion.”

Dean shrugged and turned back to Sam. “Well, anyway, that’s just a meat suit he’s wearing.  He could just as easily have had a woman’s meat suit. So he doesn’t even count in the whole male-female thing.”

“Cas is in a male vessel, Dean, and you’re attracted to it.” Sam let out an exasperated sigh. “And there’s nothing wrong with that! And I hope you don’t have all these issues just because you’ve got a thing for me.”

Dean stared at all of us in turn before finally turning back to his brother. “Am I in the freaking **_Twilight Zone_**?”

“No!” Sam covered his face with his hands and took several deep breaths before letting his hands fall. “Look, you identify however you want. Gay, straight, bi, hetero-flexible—”

“Hetero-mystical?” Charlie suggested, quirking an eyebrow.

Sam glared at her.  “Look, Dean, if I’m wrong, fine. But I always kind of thought, in the back of my head, that you had a crush on me—a safe one, because you didn’t really want to act on it. It was just, you know . . . .”

“No, I don’t know!”

“Okay. I’ll try this again. You crushed on me because it would never become real—and you’d never have to risk Dad finding out that you like guys as much as you like women.”

Dean kept quiet. Quiet and eerily still.

Sam swallowed but forced himself to continue. “Look, I was glad that you were crushing on me.”

“First of all, I wasn’t. Second of all—what the fuck?”

“Listen to me, Dean!” Sammy clenched his fists for a second. “Listen. It was one more proof that I was the most important thing in the world to you. And since neither of us was the most important thing to Dad—I mean, you know how he was when he was on the hunt—I needed that.”

Dean looked away and took a shaky breath. “I, uh—I have no clue what Dad would say about me and Cas.”

“Me either.” Sam shrugged. “Maybe he would have been fine with it. Hell, maybe he would have been fine with you just telling him you were bi. No idea. I just know that—hey, if I were bi, I wouldn’t have told him.”

“Yeah.” Dean was still looking away. “No kidding.”

“Anyway,” Sam said, “That’s not why I’m here. Or maybe it is. Maybe it’s all connected.” He paused again. “Dean, are you weird about me and Anne because—well, because Anne and George have their own fucked up sibling relationship?”

“Fucked up codependent sibling relationship,” Charlie supplied.

“Fine.” Sam bit back a grin. “What she said. Is that why you’re upset?”

There was another long moment of silence. “Yeah,” Dean said at last.

“Well, I don’t know what’s going to happen between Anne and me. She’s not even speaking to me right now. But, dude—believe me. I can handle whatever weirdness exists between her and her brother. Even if they have some bizarre, unconsummated crush on each other. Okay?”

“What if they have gotten a little Lannister?” Charlie asked.

“I could deal with that too.”

Dean scoffed. “This is the guy who dated a demon, so he’s into fucked-up.”

Sam rolled his eyes again. “You really had to go there?”

Dean managed a smile. “Hey, Anne’s a big step up from Ruby. A huge step. Even if she’s out of her own time. Hell, even if she has screwed around with her own brother.”

“Fuck you very much, Dean.” Despite the harsh words, Sam was smiling. “So you going to back off? Let me and Anne figure stuff out?”

“Yeah, but not because anything you said tonight is close to reality,” Dean answered.

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but—then why?”

Dean grinned outright this time. “Because Anne’s all religious and she don’t do affairs and she’ll hold out on you, man, until you put a ring on her finger. And I don’t think you’re going to rush out to buy a ring.”

Sam seemed to consider that. “You might be right. And if you are, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Right.”

“So you’re not going to interfere?”

Dean let out an exaggerated, exasperated sigh. “No. I won’t interfere.”

“You promise?”

“What, you want me to pinky swear?”

Sam’s eyes lit up. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

I didn’t understand what sort of ritual Sam was demanding—I had never heard of a pinky swear—but Dean did. He rolled his eyes, but he also held out his pinky finger.

Sam hooked it with his own pinky finger. “You swear, Dean?”

“I swear.”

He spoke with what I believe was mock-solemnity. I think his promise was real enough, however, and—judging by the true solemnity present in his soul—it must have been binding. This pinky swear seemed to be a ritual of some power.

“Okay, then.” Sam’s voice seemed carefully neutral as they separated their fingers. “We’re good, right?”

Dean eyes softened as he studied his brother. “Yeah.” He picked up the ice pack and reapplied it. “We’re good, Sammy. Now get out of my room and take Charlie with you.” He paused to toss me an affectionate glance. “I want some quality mystical time with mine angel . . . even if he is junkless outside of his vessel.”

 

~*~

 

Getting mystical, that night, turned out to be Dean curling up in my arms. I was a little surprised—he liked to think of himself with an overactive sex drive. But for the moment, at least, he seemed content to lie in the dark, his head on my shoulder, idly tracing imaginary symbols on my t-shirt with his fingers.

“Thank you, Cas.” His voice wasn’t sleepy yet. Not quite wide awake either, but some twilight state in between.

I toyed with his hair, still amazed that Dean allowed me such intimacies. “For?”

“Understanding about Sam. About—you know.”

“He’s your baby brother. He will always come first. I’ve understood that since I raised you from perdition.”

“You used to be kind of hard on him. I always wondered if you were jealous.”

“No. Never.”

“You called him an abomination.”

“He was an abomination.”

“Cas!”

“What? I never said it was his fault.”

Dean couldn’t help himself—he laughed. “Yeah, yeah. Well, whatever man. I’m still grateful for the not-jealous thing on your part.”

I thought that over. “Would you like to show me your gratitude?”

“Show you?” He smiled up at me and began tracing symbols onto my nipple.

I gasped. It was an intriguing sensation, even through the cotton blend of the t-shirt.

Dean seemed satisfied with my response. “How’d you like me to show you, exactly?”

“While this is pleasant—most pleasant—I, uh, was hoping you would tell me something.”

He abandoned my nipple and propped himself up with his elbow. “Seriously, Cas?”

My vessel’s face heated up again. “Yes.”

Dean made a sound that was halfway between a strangled sigh and a laugh. “Fuck, man. Okay. What’s up?”

“I want you to tell me why I can’t call you our fearless leader.”

He stared at me in the darkness.

I rolled over on my side and stared straight back.

“Jesus, you’re as stubborn as Sam is.”

I just kept staring.

“Fine,” he said. “So, back before the apocalypse we averted, your old buddy Zachariah took me on a little trip.”

“A trip to where?”

“To the future.” Dean shrugged. “Or so he said. Since it didn’t come to pass, I guess it was an alternate future. Or maybe just a vision he made up for me—but it didn’t feel like just a vision. And it was bad, Cas. The apocalypse happened and there were croats everywhere and Sammy had said yes to Lucifer . . . it was fucking bad.”

By ‘croats,’ I assumed he meant humans infected with Lucifer’s Croatoan virus. In this alternate future, it must have spread unchecked.

I shook myself. That didn’t matter at the moment. Dean was upset. His soul was quivering, even though he managed to keep his body and his voice calm. I reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

“I met myself in that future,” he continued. “Fucking weirdest thing ever—and the worst part is, I didn’t even like me. And I, uh, met you too.”

“Did you dislike me too?” The question was petty, perhaps, but I wanted to know.

“No, man. I liked you. And, hey—at least you recognized me right away. You knew I was me from the past. And you liked past me. But you were also stoned and totally human and all hippie-like and using sex and drugs to ward off despair.”

“I—what?”

“You were stoned. Like, all the time.”

“Stoned as in drugged?”

“Yeah. And you must have had a hell of a stash. And you were conducting orgies, man. These crazy hippie orgies.”

“I—” I broke off. I had no idea what to say.

“Yeah. Well, anyway, all the other angels were gone. But you stuck around. And future me—look, I had become this ruthless bastard. But I was leading a group that was fighting the croats. And you stayed loyal to me, but you were, like, the king of giving me a hard time. And you fucking loved referring to me as our fearless leader.”

I shifted and pushed myself up so that I was sitting cross-legged on the bed. Dean followed suit.

“You okay?” he asked me.

“I’m fine. And this makes sense. There was nothing in your memories prior to the time I raised you from perdition that would account for your dislike of the ‘fearless leader’ title.”

He shut his eyes. “You had access to all my memories.”

“Of course. I kept your soul safe, Dean, while I brought you out of hell and then rebuilt your physical body.  I know you inside and out.”

“You keep saying that, but—damn, Cas.” He shook himself. “Anyway, that’s the story.”

“Dean, would you mind showing me all this?”

“Showing you? Like, how you showed me your memory of George being executed?”

“No, not quite. You don’t have the power to bring me into a memory that way. I simply wish to . . . see this memory of yours, exactly as you do.”

“Uh, what do I have to do?”

“You don’t have to do anything. I just need to gaze deeply enough into your soul.”

He stared at me. “So, you don’t actually need my permission?”

“Technically? No, I can access your memories regardless. But I will refrain if you don’t wish to share this.”

“Um . . . . “ He turned away from me as his voice trailed off. But after a moment, he reached a decision. “All right, what the fuck. You already know just about everything about me, right?”

“I know you very well, yes.”

“And you haven’t run screaming yet, so . . . fine.” He looked back at me. Even in the darkness, I think, he could make out my features and my expression. And after a moment of studying me, he picked up my hand and brought it to his forehead. “Go ahead, Cas. Mind meld me.”


	25. Angelic Powers

I had forgotten the limited way that humans see things. Dean couldn’t perceive even the auras of souls, let alone the souls themselves. Even in this alternate future that Zachariah sent him to, he saw the meat-suits of the people he knew and met, nothing more. No wonder humans couldn’t tell a demon or leviathan on sight.

It was the first time I’d ever seen Zachariah as Dean saw him. I didn’t see the four terrifying faces of his true form; instead, I saw only his vessel, which looked oddly like a disgruntled vice president of some human corporation.

I frowned. This was a relentlessly bleak future, and I wouldn’t be able to peer into Dean’s soul—either the present Dean’s or the future Dean’s—while I was here. I would have to rely on his expressions and words and reactions instead. And I would only see myself as Dean saw me. I wouldn’t see my grace flowing through me . . . or notice the lack of it.

So I would be more than half blind. But perhaps that didn’t matter. I would have to focus on what I could see.

 As Dean had warned me, there were croats everywhere. I followed his memories through a narrow escape, followed them to Bobby’s and, from there, followed them to Camp Chitaqua . . . where the future version of both Dean and me awaited.

 

~*~

 

“Well?”

I opened my eyes to find Dean giving me a questioning, demanding look. I still had the tips of my fingers on his forehead, I realized. And we were both still seated cross-legged on our bed, still facing each other.

I let my hand drop.

“Well?” Dean repeated.

“Well what?”

He rolled his eyes. “Did you—did you see everything?”

“Yes.” I considered him. “It was odd seeing things the way you do. I have experienced that limited vision before, when I lost my grace, but—”

“Cas, I don’t care what sort of vision you had.  You know everything now? Everything that happened there at Camp Chitaqua and on the raid?”

I nodded slowly. “Yes, Dean.”

“Then you know that I—that, uh, future-me . . .”

“That future-you used me and the rest of our friends as a decoy? That he—what were your words? Fed us into a meat grinder?”

Dean went pale. “Yeah.”

“Yes, Dean. I know.”

He gave me a cautious look, as if he was dealing with a live wire. “And you’re not angry.”

“No.” I shook my head. “I don’t think future-me would have been angry either, to be honest.”

He raised his eyebrows at me.

“Dean, despite the orgies and the drugs, he seemed . . . my future self seemed so desolate. So resigned to everything ending. He forgot—or maybe he never learned—that the trick to being human is to rise above despair. Not to let yourself drown it out in hedonism or anything else.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, well, I should have taught him that. Future-me, I mean. I should have kept him from despairing.”

I gave him a small, wan smile, wishing I could show him how the warmth and generosity of his soul was shining in him right now. But, since I could not, I settled for repeating words—with one notable change—that I had said to him years before. “You can’t save everyone, my love. Though you try.”

He smiled, noting the shift from friend to love. “Maybe not. But Cas? I don’t think future-me bothered to try.”

“You don’t know that. You saw only three days of that five year future, Dean. You don’t know what future-you tried to teach future-me. Or vice versa.”

“Maybe not, but I know this much.” He stared into my eyes. “I lost my humanity, and it started when I—and I mean me, this me—told Sam that we were done. That’s the lesson I learned when I came back. That I need my little brother to keep me human.”

He paused, but he didn’t seem to be waiting for me to say anything. So I kept silent, allowing him to gather his thoughts.

“There’s something else,” he said. “All the angels high tailed it away from earth—all of them except for you, Cas. You stayed here and you stayed by my side. So, uh, thanks for that.”

I shrugged. “There’s nowhere I would rather be, in any reality.”

“Well, thanks again.” He sucked in a lung full of air. “So that was real, wasn’t it? Zachariah managed to hurl me into the future, but a future that didn’t happen.”

“Well, an alternate future, at least. It may exist in some sense.” I chewed on my thoughts. Something was nagging at me. Something I was missing, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

“Hey, look, don’t tell Sam about this, okay?” Dean said. “He doesn’t need to know all the gory details.”

“I won’t tell him—wait, Dean. That’s what’s wrong here.”

“What?”

“Sam.”

“Sam?”

“No.” I slapped the bed in frustration. “No, there’s nothing wrong with Sam. But he has seen alternate futures as well, hasn’t he?”

“Um, sort of. I mean, Gabriel kept killing me off in some weird futures he made Sam watch. He wanted to teach Sam a lesson about surviving without me. But that was kind of a **_Groundhog’s Day_** thing. I’m not sure it counts.”

“Groundhog Day? Oh, you mean the film, not random holidays assigned to marmots. It might count. Alternate realities—past, present or future—were a specialty of Gabriel’s. He had a unique talent for sniffing them out and learning how to interact with them.”

“Okay.” Dean shrugged. “So what? It was definitely Zachariah who shot me forward, not Gabriel. So where are you going with this, Cas? And what does it matter now, anyway?”

“I don’t know the answer to either of those questions. But somehow this does matter, Dean. The fact that there are alternate realities, and the fact that Gabriel was so good at them . . . I think that’s connected to the resurrection of Anne and George.”

“What? How? They weren’t in that future Zach showed me, man. I promise you that. Or in any weird thing Gabriel did to me or Sam.”

“No, I realize that. It’s just—I don’t know, Dean. I just know it matters.”

He gave me a hard look. “Cas, as far as we know, Gabriel is dead. I don’t see how he could have anything to do with Anne and George showing up now.”

“I know that. He has, however, tricked us before.”

“Maybe, but . . .” Dean shrugged and held out his arm to me. “All right, all right. Come here.”

I obliged him by shifting. Soon we were both lying down on the bed again, but this time I was in Dean’s arms.

“We’ll sleep on it.” Dean kissed the top of my head. “Or I’ll sleep and you’ll, uh, meditate on your grace or whatever it is you do at night. And maybe in the morning, this will all make some crazy kind of sense.”

I looked up at him and, despite everything, managed a teasing smile. “I hope so, my fearless leader.”

He snorted and brought a hand down—hard—on my rear . . . although, since my grace was currently flowing through my vessel unabated, I imagine it hurt his hand more than my ass.

“Fuck,” he groaned, confirming that.

“I’m not human, Dean. I lack your weaker tolerance for pain and—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted. “I should have beat your ass back when you lost your mojo.”

I frowned, thinking back to that time. “At that point, I don’t believe you had a reason to.”

“Yeah, well, I had plenty of reasons to catch up on.”

“If you’re referring to the terrible things I did, or the times I let you down—”

“Stop with the guilt thing, Cas, or I’ll—”

I moved so quickly that he had no prayer of countering me. There are advantages to angelic powers: now I was straddled on top of him, holding his wrists down with my hands. “Or you’ll what?”

He gave me the cockiest grin in his repertoire. “Or I’ll find a way to go back in time, take you out of that stupid gas station convenience store you were working in—”

“You mean the one I was working in because you kicked me out of the bunker?”

He had the grace to blush. “Um, yeah. That would be the one.” He managed another cocky grin as he dove straight back into this fantasy he was weaving. “I’ll take you out of there, man, drag your mojo-less ass back to the bunker and spank it whenever I damn well please.”

He was growing hard beneath me—I could feel it. My vessel responded in kind.

“That’s an interesting fantasy, Dean,” I whispered, wondering why the words came out so deep in my vessel’s throat.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m—I’m getting kind of partial to it. Don’t suppose you can, uh, pretend you don’t have all that mojo?”

I leaned down and kissed him slow. I wasn’t following any script here, but he seemed to like it.

“No,” I answered, just in time to let him breathe again.  Then I shifted us both with that same lightning speed. Before Dean could struggle I was sitting up and pulling him, facedown, over my lap.

He gasped, but he didn’t raise any objections. So I tugged down his boxer briefs and brought my hand down against his backside.

“Ow!” He was laughing, though, and I could tell he wasn’t really hurting. “What the fuck was that for, Cas?”

“Kicking me out of the bunker.”

“Hey, I apologized for that—ow!”

I rubbed the spot where I had just smacked him again.

“You understood about that,” he reminded me.

“So I did.” I brought my hand down again, closer to his thighs. “Then this is for wanting to indulge in random hook ups.”

He let out something between a curse and a moan. “You going to beat my ass until I promise to be exclusive?”

“Yes.” I smacked him harder this time.  “It’s a beautiful ass, Dean. I have no desire to share it.”

He tossed me another grin over his shoulder. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re going to have to work harder than that, Cas, to show me you mean it.”

I took him at his word. His rear was aching, bruising and hot to the touch by the time I finished, but he seemed to enjoy every second of it.

Finally he rolled off me, back on his back. He grabbed hold of my hands and pulled me on top of him. “Let’s fuck,” he whispered.

I was an angel, I reminded myself. Despite this—this boner my vessel was currently sporting, I was perfectly capable of controlling my physical reactions to Dean Winchester. There was no need for me to be breathing heavy. Technically speaking, I didn’t need to breathe at all.

“Are you going to indulge in random hook ups?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. Cross my heart.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’d prefer a pinky swear. That seemed to carry considerable weight between you and Sam.”

He laughed and held out his pinky. “Whatever, man.”

I hooked my pinky to his. “I promise not to have intercourse—or foreplay—with anyone but you, Dean.”

His face grew serious. “Same here. We’re exclusive now, mine angel.” He disentangled our pinkies and pulled me close again. “Now, how do you want to do this?”

 

~*~

 

I thought long and hard about Dean’s question. Too long for Dean’s patience, in fact.

“Come here, Cas,” he said, pulling me down closer, so that our chests matched and our hearts were beating against each other. “Don’t overthink this.”

“I want to be inside you,” I whispered.

“Okay.” He put his hands on my cheeks and tugged me into a kiss—a gentle kiss that was slow and deep. “Okay,” he repeated as he broke for air. “But, uh, I think, you know, there’s supposed to be some stretching down there first . . . I’m not exactly prepared.”

“I won’t hurt you, Dean.”

I must have sounded certain, because he just nodded. “Yeah, I guess your mojo can take care of everything, huh? Lube and all?”

I bit his earlobe—gently enough, I think. “What is lube?”

“Wow, that’s encouraging.”

I stared down at him. “Are you being—what’s the word? Sarcastic or snarky?”

“That was sarcasm.” He rolled his eyes. “This is snark: Lube means lubricant, Cas. As in, I’d really like not to be all dry inside when you shove your dick into my ass.”

“You won’t be,” I promised. “I’ll ensure that you will not be dry, that you will not bleed, that you will not—”

“All right, all right.” Dean grinned again. “I get it, lover boy. But do we need, ah, protection? And I don’t mean your angel blade.”

I shook my head. “We both have male bodies. We can’t produce Nephilim together. And I will not give you any diseases. Or vice versa.”

“Okay then.” He brushed my cheek with his hand. “Want me to roll over?”

“No. Not this time. I want to see your face.”

He smiled at that and we both shifted so that we could peel off the remainder of our clothes. Then I was sitting up, facing him, tugging him onto me . . . .

“Wait, wait.” Dean gave me a look. “You expect me to what? Like, sit on your lap?”

“Yes.” I pulled him closer, wrapping my arms around him, drawing him into an urgent, breathless kiss. He hesitated for a second—it felt like an eternity to me—but then he was falling into the kiss and hooking his legs around my waist. I figured out how to lift him so that . . . well, so that he was more accessible. So that I could slowly urge myself inside him.

We were tentative, both of us. But Dean was never tentative in sex: I had witnessed enough of his sexual encounters to know that. He was often gentle and always considerate, but never tentative.

I broke off from the kiss long enough to whisper, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He laughed a little—a nervous laugh. “Look, Cas, I don’t know what I’m doing. Not like I have experience in this.”

I urged myself in a little deeper. “But this is good?”

“Yeah. This is—this is very good.”

I knew every molecule of his physical body, I reminded myself. I knew the depths of his soul. Surely I could manage to give him pleasure? Nonetheless, it seemed to take an agonizingly long time for the two of us to find some sort of rhythm. But we did, and then we were slowly moving together—slowly thrusting, slowly pumping, slowly touching, slowly rubbing . . .

I used my grace to ease our way, to keep my promise that there would be no damage to him, despite how tight he was . . . and, oh that was nice. I closed my eyes and thanked God for this, for him. I didn’t care if God had no more use for me once I’d seen Dean through this lifetime. I just thanked Him for every second Dean and I shared.

Dean urged us on, increasing our tempo. Everything about him felt so good, so perfect—the stubble on his cheeks, the callouses on his fingers, the jagged heat of his breath against my vessel’s skin.  I tugged him even closer, as if I could merge my true form with his soul, as if I could wrap my wings around him and shelter him there.

I climaxed inside of him—exploded, really—but sooner than he liked.

He chuckled into my ear. “We got to teach you some endurance, mine angel.”

“Does that mean we get to practice more?” I shifted again so that I could wrap my fingers around the base of his penis. I knew I could bring him to a satisfactory climax of his own. 

“Oh yeah.” His breath hitched against the nape of my throat. “Yeah, we’re going to need lots more practice.”


	26. Human Nature

The new and improved Men of Letters dedicated the following week to preparing Sam for his meeting with Cromwell. He spent most of his time with Anne and George, making sure he understood their Tudor speech and accents. That was odd for the Boleyns, who were simultaneously attempting to perfect their new American accents.

And maybe it was odder still for Sam and Anne, who were in the midst of a private war—a war of snide comments that sometimes exploded into angry shouts and recriminations. The issue between them seemed to be Anne’s belief that they required Dean’s blessing to continue any courtship. Which he had theoretically given, if only by a promise not to interfere. But Anne found Sam’s indifference to Dean’s opinion on the matter infuriating.

“But I think they’re compatible, overall,” I mused.

Dean and Charlie both glanced up at me from across the research table.

“What, you’re a cupid now?” Dean asked.

“No. It was just an observation, Dean.”

“Because you’re so good at figuring out human nature?”

I was a little offended. “I may have had my difficulties in the past. But I have experienced what it’s like to be human now  . . .”

“And you said that you still didn’t really get it and that you still had more to learn.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “So don’t pretend that you can figure out if Sam and Anne are good together.”

“I think they might be,” Charlie piped up. “Not definitely, but potentially.”

I shot her a grateful look. “Yes. For example—well, Anne pointed out that she and Sam are both committed to the Men of Letters. And both to family.”

“Yeah?” Dean didn’t look convinced. “As a kid, Sammy couldn’t wait to get away from me and Dad. And even now some of his best memories are him apart from his family.”

Charlie’s eyes settled on Dean, frank and sympathetic. “Dean, he rebelled against your Dad—and you—because that’s what kids do with their parents.”

“I’m his brother, Charlie.”

“His older brother who was a better dad to him than his real dad. And don’t give me that look, Dean Winchester. I read the books. I know all about John Winchester’s A+ parenting.”

“You don’t get to judge my father!”

“I’m not judging him, okay? He managed to raise two good boys, so he must have done something right. But it’s a good thing Sam had you too.”

Dean just rolled his eyes and went straight back to the book in front of him. Charlie and I exchanged glances. Then she shrugged at me, conveying that it was best to drop the subject for now.

I ignored her unspoken suggestion. “Dean, you promised not to interfere with Sam and Anne. You pinky swore.”

Dean slammed the book shut. “I’m not interfering, okay? And I like Anne. I don’t have any problem with her. And if Sam thinks he can handle whatever weird sibling issues she and George have, great. More power to him.”

He was speaking the truth. And yet, his soul was still agitated. I could tell by the way it seemed to twist and flash in bursts of hard, glaring colors.

Charlie put her elbows up on the table and her chin in her hands. “Dean, why are you so upset?”

“I don’t know.” His voice was somehow frustrated and resigned at the same time. “Maybe I’ll feel better when we figure all this out.” He paused to look directly at me. “Cas, is there anything you’re not telling us?”

“I’m not hiding anything from you, Dean.”

“Well, maybe something you didn’t think it was important enough to mention? Like, uh, anything between you and Balthazar?”

I cocked my head at him. “I don’t understand. I confessed exactly what I did to Balthazar.”

Those gritty green eyes of his bored into mine. “Okay. But what about what you did with him? I mean, were you and he—you know.”

“No, I don’t know.” I wasn’t toying with Dean; I was genuinely confused.

Charlie, meanwhile, was staring down at her own book as if it was suddenly the only thing of importance in the entire world.

“Okay.” Dean’s face was turning red—a fact that just served to empathize the turbulence in his soul. “It’s just that, you two were meeting at this swanky hotel. And taking walks in the park . . . .” He shrugged and let his voice trail off.

“Oh.” Now I understood. “You think Balthazar and I were romantically involved?”

He shrugged again. “The thought had occurred to me, yeah. I mean, I’m not jealous. If anything did happen, it was before you and me—well, before we came to our senses.”

I smiled. “No, Dean. Balthazar simply enjoyed the luxuriousness of the Jefferson, even though his tastes were more modern. And I simply liked Branch Brook Park for the cherry blossoms. We were not romantic. Few angels are with each other. It’s a very—it’s a different sort of existence.”

He gave me a small smile in return. “So no cloud seeding?”

“No. And, honestly, I don’t think it’d make any difference to our case, one way or another. Whether Balthazar and I were brothers or lovers—well, either way, I destroyed him.”

 “Right.” He sighed. “And some angel wants to remind you of that.”

I made a face. “I still can’t shake the feeling that Gabriel is somehow involved in this.”

“If he’s not dead.”

“If he’s not dead,” I agreed.

Charlie finally looked back up from her book. “Are we sure he’s a good guy? I mean, all his tricks in the Winchester Gospels—”

“He’s a good guy.” My voice was firm.

“As good as any of us, anyway,” Dean added. “God knows we’ve all done our share of damage. But—look, the dude is probably dead.”

I frowned. I had never told Dean about my strange vision of Gabriel . . . admittedly, a vision that was probably based on wishful thinking or some trick of Metatron’s. Still, if anyone had cheated death yet again, it would be my trickster brother.

The slamming of a door somewhere in the bunker interrupted my thoughts. I looked up to see Anne stalking toward the table, her face flushed and her fingers clenched. She took a seat next to Dean, her back rigidly straight, and opened a book without comment.

“Well, hello to you too,” Dean said.

“I beg pardon,” she answered through her teeth.

“What’s Sam up to?” Charlie asked.

“Sam,” she said slowly, as if that one syllable took momentous effort, “is making remarkable progress. He’ll sound like a native in the 16th century.”

Dean couldn’t quite wipe the proud smirk off his face. “That’s my boy.”

“We should make the trip soon, then,” I said. “This week. It sounds as if Sam is ready.”

Anne gazed at me through her dark, thick lashes. “Will he be in mortal danger?”

I sighed. “I hope not. I will do everything I can to protect him. But to bend time that far—I won’t pretend this isn’t dangerous.”

“Perhaps it’s not worth the trip,” Anne said softly. “Nothing has happened in this time, has it? Nothing because of George and me.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Dean said. “Plus we have a rogue angel out there—we need to know who they are and why they did this, because believe me, there are lots of angels who would like revenge on Cas. And the Winchesters. And I don’t like just ignoring the fact that your buddy Cromwell was a Man of Letters.”

“I understand, but—”

“Anne.” Dean’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “We’re hunters. We do what we have to—we take the risks that we need to.”

She nodded, chagrined. “Of course.”

We all went back to our books in silence.

 

~*~

 

Dean and I went to a diner on our own that night, to make up for the fact that we had never gone on that private outing we talked about.  He was willing to try a fancier restaurant for my sake, but I knew nothing would satisfy him like a good burger.

To be honest, even though I didn’t technically need to eat, I’d developed a passion for burgers myself. It was difficult for me to enjoy food as an angel—I tasted every single molecule, instead of a unified whole. That was true even for the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I had feasted on while I was briefly human. But for some reason I could still enjoy burgers. Maybe Dean’s pleasure in them spilled over to me.

The host settled us in a booth with a good view of the TV over the bar. We both relaxed.  The nice thing about a diner is you can stay there indefinitely, as long as you keep ordering. So we kept up a steady order of side dishes and shakes and beer and coffee.

We didn’t speak much. Dean was keeping an eye on the baseball game playing on the TV. I was mentally rehearsing what I would need to do in order to bend time as far back as the Tudor period.  The silence between us stretched on, both comfortable and companionable.

But once the ball game was over, Dean cocked his head at me. “You ever think about Meg?”

I studied him. I still could not detect any jealousy in his emotions. “Sometimes.”

He nodded. “She should have been your first, man.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “My first?”

“Lover, Cas. Your first lover. Not April.”

“Oh. It was nice with April. Until she showed her true colors.”

Dean grunted. “Yeah, well. Whatever Meg was, at least she was real. And she looked after you when we couldn’t.”

That, I realized, was as close as Dean would ever come to expressing any sort of approval for Meg. I smiled down at my mug. “I miss her.”

“Can’t say the same. But I get why you do.” He paused. “As long as we’re talking about the past, there’s something I’ve wanted to thank you for. I meant to before, but there was never a good moment.”

I looked up from my coffee. “What is it?”

He took a long gulp of his beer and then leaned forward against the table of the booth. “Lisa and Ben. Her son Ben, I mean. Not—well, you know who I mean.”

“Yes.”

“It was good of you to—you know. Do what I asked about their memories. Especially when we were enemies.”

“We were never enemies.”

He gave me a look.

“Well, never when both of us were in our right minds.” I tried for another smile. “And we weren’t enemies yet at that point. Not really. It wasn’t until I—”

Dean held up a hand. “We’re not going to relive all that.”

I smiled for real this time. That was becoming his mantra. “No,” I agreed. “What made you think of Lisa and Ben?”

He shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe . . . I don’t know.” He grinned suddenly. “Sam would say I’m overcompensating again. Reminding myself that, despite what’s going on between you and me, I’m not totally gay. Maybe a little bi. But just a little.”

“You don’t have to find a neat little box, Dean. I think I understand why humans feel the need to label everything . . . but not everything lends itself to specific categories.”

He snorted. “Yeah, you were anti-labels when you were a hippie too. In that alternate future, I mean.”

“Well, that Cas must have gotten a few things right.” I paused. “Do you miss Lisa and Ben?”

Dean gave me a wary look. "You’re not jealous, are you?”

“No. If you had stayed with them, Dean, I would have been happy for your sake.”

“I know.” There was a gentleness in his eyes, tinged with gratitude. “Sometimes I miss them. It would never have worked—I mean, maybe, if things hadn’t gone to hell again and I hadn’t gone back to hunting. But . . . I don’t know. Something would have always drawn me back. And I would have ended up raising Ben in the family business, and Lisa would never have forgiven me for that. They’re better off.”

There was nostalgia in his voice. I could hear it. I could see it too—though I’m not sure how to describe it. It was sort of a dull spark, if that makes sense, in his soul. And it was tinged with regret. But there was peace there too. Dean was at peace with his decision to let them go, to let them forget him.

Dean grunted. “It’s still weird when you look at me like that, man.”

“I’m sorry.” I glanced down at my coffee. “I still check up on them sometimes.”

“You do?”

I nodded. “Yes. In some small way, they still seem like a part of you.”

He didn’t say anything to that. He just stared at me with a guarded expression.

I managed a shrug. “They seem to be doing well.”

“Good.” He nodded slowly, as if he needed a moment to take that in. “That’s really good.  And thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I, um—I wouldn’t mind if you keep doing that. Checking up on them, I mean.”

“I will.”

“You don’t have to tell me any specifics. But—yeah. I’d like to know how they are, you know?”

“I’ll keep you informed.”

“Wow. So my—my, uh, current boyfriend is going to keep checking up on my ex for me.”

I put my coffee cup down. “Are we boyfriends?”

He shrugged. “I guess. We’re exclusive, right? So, yeah. Unless this is one of those things you don’t want to label.”

I reached a hand toward his. “I don’t mind that label.”

He stared down at my fingers—and then I realized my mistake. Dean might be willing to acknowledge me as his boyfriend. He might even be willing to kiss me in front of Sam and Charlie and Anne and George back at the bunker. But public displays of affection in a random diner were still off limits.

I pulled my hand back before I could make him feel any more uncomfortable. He turned back to the television, which had moved on to some kind of post-game show.

I closed my eyes, cursing my own stupidity, and went back to preparing myself for a journey through time.


	27. Perchance to Dream

It was late by the time Dean and I pulled into the bunker’s garage. Dean turned off the Impala, whispering a good night to ‘Baby’ in the process. I smiled to myself. If I were going to be jealous, I reflected, it made more sense to be jealous of the car than of Dean’s ex.

He took my hand as we walked inside the bunker proper. I turned to him in surprise, but he just stared straight ahead, trying to hide the fact that he was blushing. I guessed this was some sort of compensation for refusing to grasp hands across the table at the diner.

“Straight to bed or midnight snack?” Dean asked as we neared the vicinity of the kitchen.

My mouth dropped open. “How can you still be hungry?”

“How can you not be? Dude, I’ve seen you eat hundreds of burgers at a sitting.”

“Yes, but I have a divine metabolism to fall back on—”

I paused, interrupted by the sound of something crashing in the kitchen, followed by laughter and giggles.

Dean and I exchanged glances and headed straight there. He even pulled his gun out, though it would have been difficult for anyone or anything hostile to penetrate the bunker.

We both stood at the kitchen door for a second, listening. Then I shook my head. I was certain now, so I nodded at the gun. “You won’t need that.”

He put it away. “I know. It’s Sam and Anne, right?”

“Yes.”

He swore under his breath and stalked into the room. I followed in his wake.

There was a broken bottle of pickles on the floor—ever since Anne had stolen one from Sam’s plate, she had developed a passion for the kosher variety. And the more garlic and dill the better, as far as she was concerned.

Sam was in the middle of the room—shirtless again, which was odd—with a small broom and dustpan. “Great. That smell will hang here for days.” His smile belied his words; I don’t think he was actually upset.

“It’s a good smell, but a terrible waste of pickles.” Anne licked a finger before she turned to us. “Good evening. Did you two just get home?”

“Hey Dean. Hey Cas,” Sam said. “Thought you were already back and in bed.”

Dean didn’t answer. He was busy looking Anne up and down. I didn’t understand why, though. True, she was dressed only in a long t-shirt, but—

“Anne,” Dean asked, “is that Sam’s shirt?”

Nothing could disguise the guilty glance that passed between Sam and Anne.

Nonetheless, Anne pulled herself together and answered with a careless aplomb. “Yes. Sam was kind enough to loan it to me—you know how George and I still can’t rectify ourselves to doing our own laundry.”

“Or cleaning up after their spills,” Sam muttered, kneeling down to take care of the broken glass.

She sniffed. “I’ve improved, Sam. I even learned how to make my own tuna melts.”

“But you still don’t clean up afterwards. Hell, you don’t even wash your own hair.”

“I can’t! I need Charlotte’s help for that—washing hair as long as mine is a two person job at least.”

“She’s right,” Dean said. “But I don’t care about her hair or tuna melts right now.” He turned to Anne. “So you just asked my brother for a t-shirt to borrow?”

She nodded. “His are perfect. He’s so tall!  They’re nice and long on me.”

“So your clothes and underwear aren’t strewn around his room right now?”

“Okay, you know what?” Sam stood up, disposed of the broken glass and then turned to his brother. “You agreed not to interfere, remember?”

“Um, here.” I passed some paper towels to Sam, since the pickle juice was still all over the floor.

But Dean ignored both Sam and me, focusing on Anne. “You held out for seven years against Henry. Seven years! You couldn’t last two weeks against Sammy?”

Her face turned bright red, but she held up her chin. “Your brother is a far worthier man! And much more virile.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Did he promise to marry you? Because, you know, you’re supposed to be all Christian. You’re supposed to wait for a ring.”

“Dude!” Sam glared at his brother as he handed the paper towels back to me—I suppose the pickle juice wasn’t his concern at the moment. “That’s none of your business!”

“Of course it’s his business.” Anne looked Dean in the eye. “We haven’t discussed the matter thoroughly yet, but if I’m with child, then we’ll—”

“With child?” Dean stared at her. “Wait, you mean if you’re pregnant? Are you telling me that you two didn’t use protection?”

“Dean—” There was a warning note in Sam’s voice.

“Protection?” Anne asked, the picture of innocence.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Dean told her. “Once you decided to sleep with my brother you would have researched all the options. And he would have said something before banging you, because he’s the smart one. He doesn’t think with his dick.”

“Dean!” Sam was furious now.

I stepped between the brothers to prevent any bloodshed. “Why don’t you help me clean up, Dean? And Sam—it’s late. You should stay well-rested; we’ll be leaving at some point this week.”

Sam looked at me. Something in my expression must have convinced him, because he nodded. I watched him take Anne by the hand and lead her out of the kitchen without another glance at Dean. Which, at the moment, was probably just as well.

Anne gave him a parting glance, though. A glance that seemed to beg forgiveness. Dean ignored it as he kneeled down to help me.

“She just wants to prove she can have a boy,” he muttered.

I paused to stare at him. That was an astute inference, actually. Even though it was no fault of hers, some part of her must still be seething at herself for not presenting Henry with a son. And had Elizabeth been a boy, neither Henry not his henchman Cromwell would ever have moved against her. Henry might well have fallen out of love with her regardless, but she and her brother and her whole family would have been secure.

But maybe Dean was only partially right. “She wouldn’t sleep with just anyone to that end. Your brother isn’t some—some random guy.”

“No. She wouldn’t sleep with some random guy. But she’ll take the second in command here. Especially since he’s a hereditary Man of Letters too.”

He might have another point there. Anne was still Anne, after all. She was still ambitious, even if the scope of her ambitions had changed. “Well . . . maybe. But I think it’s more than that. I think she genuinely likes Sam. And she’s afraid he won’t make it back from the—from the time traveling.”

Those, apparently, were the magic words. Dean blanched at the thought of losing his brother. “He’s going to make it back.”

“I think so, Dean. And I’ll do my best to make it so.”

“I know.” He sighed as he stood up and threw the towels out. “So, what? Sam wants to make a baby in case he doesn’t make it back?”

I shrugged as I followed suit. “You’ll have to ask him.” I had never been good at reading Sam.

“Where the hell is his head? Does he want to raise a kid in this life? He doesn’t even know what it’s like to have a kid.”

“Dean.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s unlikely she’s pregnant. And if she is—well, these are all questions that will keep for now.”

“No, they won’t.”

“Dean . . .”

“I’ll leave them alone tonight, Cas. But me and Sammy are going to have a talk tomorrow.”

 

~*~

 

“Maybe you should try to sleep tonight.”

I had been toeing off my shoes, but I glanced up at Dean in surprise. He was sitting on the bed, already stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt, watching me get ready.

“My mojo is back, remember?” Both shoes were off now, so I started unbuttoning my shirt. “I don’t require sleep.”

 “Yeah, but I’ve seen you sleep, even as an angel.”

“Only when my, uh, batteries needed recharging.” I started unbuttoning my jeans.

“Uh-huh. Listen, it’s like you said to Sam. You’re going to leave sometime this week. You should be well-rested.”

“But I’m fine—”

“Dude. This is an order.”

I didn’t answer that right away. I was too busy picking up my dirty clothes along with Dean’s—which, as usual, he had left strewn on the floor. Not that it mattered. Just a little of my grace would clean all of them . . . .

“Cas.”

“I heard you, Dean.”

“Yeah, and?”

I cleaned all the clothing, folded them up neatly, put them away and then finally took a seat next to him on the bed. “Yes, my fearless leader.” I leaned over and brushed my lips against his. “I’ll attempt to sleep tonight.”

He laughed and gave me a shove. “Fuck you, man.” But then his face grew serious. “You going to be okay? You and Sammy both?”

“There is no guarantee, but I believe so.”

“All right.” He looked down at his hands. “So you think this is an acceptable risk?”

“Yes.”

My judgment on the issue seemed to satisfy him. A warmth settled in my vessel’s stomach. A warmth that I couldn’t quite identify, but it felt good.

“Okay,” Dean said. “Good. Come here.”

I followed that order with enthusiasm, and soon we were both nestled together under the covers. “This is nice,” I whispered.

“Hmmm.” He was already fading. “Sweet dreams.”

“I don’t dream,” I informed him.

“What?” He yawned. “Not even when you were human?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Well, whatever. Night, Cas.”

“Good night, Dean.”

He sank into sleep almost immediately. I breathed a sigh of relief: his soul seemed relatively calm—at least by Dean’s standards. In fact, he’d been sleeping well these past few nights. I suppose he was right, and having someone by his side at night automatically soothed him.

So perhaps his nightmares would stay at bay, without any intervention from me. It was dangerous to intervene, anyway. Once in a while was acceptable, but humans needed their subconscious creations to help keep them sane in the waking world.

An angel, however, had no such need. So I would fulfill my promise to Dean and attempt to drift off. If I succeeded, I would have a peaceful few hours of oblivion to look forward to, untroubled by the visions humans had to wrestle with.

I dutifully closed my eyes, only to have someone snap their fingers painfully close to my ears.

“Dean!” I groaned. “I thought you wanted me to—”

“Wake up, bro.”

My eyes shot open. Dean would never call me that. And, besides, Dean was sound asleep, one arm wrapped around me as my head rested on his shoulder.

“Castiel! Up.”

I inhaled as deeply as I could and slowly looked over my shoulder. Gabriel was sitting next to me on the bed. Gabriel, my brother. Gabriel the Archangel. Gabriel the Trickster. Gabriel, who was supposed to be dead.

But instead of being dead, he was sitting there, leaning over me, waving his hands in front of my eyes and sporting what I think humans referred to as a Cheshire grin.

“That’s my boy,” he said with mock approval. “Out of bed, Cas. There isn’t much time.”


	28. Unorthodox

“I’m dreaming.” That was the only logical explanation. Gabriel was dead. Just because I’d had a vision of him since his death—well, I already knew the explanations for that. Wishful thinking. Metatron playing me for a fool.

This time, clearly, I was dreaming.   

Gabriel, however, wasn’t impressed by my unspoken logic. “Angels don’t dream,” he reminded me.

“I lost all my grace for a time. Perhaps there is some lingering sense of humanness in me . . .”

“You just told Dean that you didn’t dream even while you were human.”

I sighed. “How long have you been here? And why couldn’t I sense you?”

He smirked. “You’re a mighty seraph, Castiel—but an archangel still has more tricks up his sleeve.” He paused to look pointedly at Dean, who was still asleep by my side. “Although maybe you have a point about dreaming. You’re getting more and more human, slugger.”

I blushed. “I realize this situation is unorthodox . . .”

“What, a guardian angel sleeping with his charge?”

My vessel’s face heated up. I hadn’t let myself think clearly about my relationship with Dean in regards to serving as his guardian—not until this moment. Maybe because I’d never been officially declared Dean’s guardian. It was something I instinctively felt, not a formal assignment. But Gabriel’s words seemed to validate my feelings. “Yes.”

“Oh, yeah, you crossed a line there.” Gabriel shrugged. “Luckily for you, it doesn’t matter.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Cas, you’ve been too attached to both Winchester boys for years. And the way you always take orders from Dean—don’t even get me started. So what difference does a little sex make now?”

“I don’t always take orders from him! Gabriel, I lied to him and betrayed him. I abandoned him and took the angel tablet with me. I—’

He looked bored. “Yes, you’ve had a few notable rebellions. But, overall Cas, I’d have to say you’re pretty much whipped.”

“I am not—”

He held up a hand. “It doesn’t matter. Look, if the boys ever need a talking to that you can’t deliver, I’ll step in. Dad knows they need more than one angel looking after them.”

My vessel’s face must have been flaming. I glanced at Dean but, miraculously, he seemed to be sleeping through this.

“Anyway, we’re wasting time.” Gabriel stood up. “Come on. If you’re determined to do this, you’ve got to take Sam now.”

I climbed out of bed. “Take him where?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Still not the brightest candle in the menorah, huh?”

“You mean to Cromwell?” I stared at him. “How did you know about this?”

“It’s me, Castiel. Now, come on!”

He walked out of the room, expecting me to follow. And by walk out, I mean that he strolled through the closed door. I sighed and followed suit, even knowing that Dean preferred me to stay in a form that he could see and physically interact with.  

I followed Gabriel straight into Sam’s room. Anne was asleep with him on his bed. They were both naked and both sleeping outside the covers.

Once I wouldn’t have cared. But now I averted my eyes, remembering how Dean reacted when he found out I had watched him have sex with any number of women. I was beginning to appreciate human modesty.

Gabriel felt no such constraints. “Anne Boleyn,” he said. “She really isn’t a classic beauty, is she? Gorgeous hair, though. And she can certainly do worse than Sam, who’s rather better endowed than—”

“Brother, please.”

“Castiel, are you actually embarrassed?” Gabriel laughed. “And here I thought I spent too much time with the hairless apes.”

Then he made himself physically present and visible, so once again I followed suit. I held my breath as he rapped his fist against the wall and called out, in a booming voice, “Samuel Winchester!”

A lot of things happened at once. Gabriel disappeared. Sam nearly jumped out of his skin, but he still reacted fast enough to turn on a light and then reach for his gun. Anne screamed and dived for the iron poker Sam kept handy. Her training as a hunter—even if it wasn’t as intense as her brother’s training—was starting to show.

Me? My eyes were still half-averted as I stood there, fully visible, and apologized. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m sorry, Anne. “

Sam lowered the gun. “Cas, what the hell—”

“This was—l won’t make excuses. But Gabriel says I have to take you now, Sam. Please meet me at the research tables.”

“Wait! Cas, what do you mean Gabriel—”

But I disappeared before he could finish.

 

~*~

 

Everyone in the bunker was awake now. And they were all gathered around the table, all staring at me.

I swallowed and tried to placate my lover. “We weren’t spying, Dean.”

“Yeah?” He folded his arms, looking oddly imperious even in his bathrobe. “What the hell would you call it?”

“No, Dean, he’s right,” Anne said. She was back in Sam’s t-shirt again. Which functioned, I suppose, as her nod to modesty. “It’s not spying. Castiel has a right to watch over us, in all circumstances. He’s an angel. And so is—” she broke off, too star struck, I think, to get the rest of her words out.

“The archangel Gabriel,” George finished for her. “That is the man—er, angel—we’re speaking of?  _The_  Gabriel? As in the Annunciation?”

Dean stared at him. “What’s the Annunciation?”

“It’s when Gabriel appeared to Mary, Jesus’s mother, to tell her she was with child,” Sam explained. He was no longer naked either; he had taken the time to throw on jeans and a button-down.

“Doesn’t sound like Gabriel,” Dean said. “He’s more into deadly pranks than announcing the stork. But he is an archangel.” He turned back to me. “And you were too spying! Gabriel too, if he’s really alive and not just a figment of your imagination.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam said. “Look, the spying thing isn’t even the point right now. Cas, are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

“Angels don’t dream,” I said.

Charlie looked up from her laptop. “Are you really, really sure, Cas? You were human for a while. And you’re still sort of—um, maybe a little of both?”

I closed my eyes and scrubbed my forehead with my fingers. “I don’t believe it was a dream. I believe Gabriel was really here.”

“Well,” Sam said. “We didn’t angel proof the bunker. If Gabriel faked his death again, it’s possible.”

“I think he did. And he wants me to take Sam to Cromwell right away.” I put my hands down and opened my eyes again. “We’re wasting time!”

Charlie closed her laptop. “Figure this out. I’m going to go get the LARPing outfit I picked out for Sam. It should look okay for 1536. Later, bitches.”

George watched her stroll off toward her room. “I must try this LARPing.”

“You should,” Dean agreed. “It’s actually pretty awesome.”

“Can we please stay on topic?” Sam was sounding increasingly frustrated.

I looked up at him. “Sam, even if I’m wrong about Gabriel, there’s no reason not to leave now.”

“We don’t know that!” Dean shook his head. “Dude, your mind has been compromised before.”

“Dean!” I wanted to throttle him, but I settled for clenching my vessel’s fists. “My mind is not compromised. At worst, I have become human enough to dream.”

“And sleepwalk,” Dean added. “Which is freaking scary, considering how powerful you are. That’s all we need—you smiting people in your sleep.”

“Wait!” Sam held up his hands like a referee. “Everyone, just wait.” He took a deep breath. “Gabriel? If you’re here, please show yourself, man.”

“What?” Dean asked. “You think you’re so special that he’ll show up just for you?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Go ahead and try too, Dean.”

But Dean shook his head. “No. I only have a profound bond with Cas.”

George and Anne, meanwhile, were exchanging glances. “Ah, perhaps a more traditional prayer?” Anne asked.

“Try anything,” Sam told her.

“Please don’t,” Gabriel said. “The Boleyn kids still favor Latin for prayer and, man, I’ve moved on from that tongue.”

My eyes flew to his voice. Gabriel was sitting opposite me, his feet up on the table.

Anne gasped. George just stared. Sam and Dean looked at each other, and then back at Gabriel.

I smiled at my brother, feeling vindicated. My Father only knows, though, what Anne and George made of his human vessel. That lewd, devil-may-care look of his probably wasn’t what they had expected in an archangel.

Sam, meanwhile, was the first human to recover from shock.

“Gabriel!” I didn’t see Sam move, but suddenly he was right next to my brother, pulling him out of the chair and into a bear hug.

I think even Gabriel was astonished by that. After all the ‘lessons’ he’d put the Winchester boys through—especially Sam—a grateful and relieved hug was the last thing he expected. I had seldom seen Gabriel at a loss, but I honestly believe that he didn’t know how to handle Sam’s reaction.

He flashed me a wild-eyed look. “Ah, little help here, bro?”  

But short of physically prying him away, there was nothing I could do. Sam kept a tight grip on him, as if he was afraid Gabriel would disappear again—or worse. Even Dean was over by him now, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Why’d you let us think you were dead, man?” Dean asked.

Gabriel finally saved himself by winging across the room, landing right behind me. “For exactly this reason!” He glared at the Winchesters. “You two already have one guardian angel who’s too attached to you. Don’t try to turn me into a second.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open. “Guardian?  Wait, you think of yourself as our guardian too?”

“You think you two can survive with just one?” Gabriel glared at all of us—including the Boleyns—as he straightened his shirt. “Sam, get ready for your trip. I’m going to go introduce myself to the ginger and make sure the LARPing clothes are suitable.”

Before anyone could answer, he disappeared.

Dean grunted. “Nice to know he’s his usual asshole self.”

“He’s one of the good guys, Dean,” Sam reminded him. “I mean . . . mostly.”

“Huh.” George looked thoughtful. “You’re right, Dean.”

“About what?”

He grinned. “I can’t picture him making the announcement to Our Lady either.”


	29. The Family  Business

Anne sighed as she put her elbows on the table and cupped her chin with her hands. “That’s two angels who have just seen me naked and fornicating.”

George snorted. “Well, you never were one to hide your light under a bushel.”

Anne elegantly and nonchalantly flipped George her third finger. Then she frowned again. “Castiel, will you serve as my confessor?”

I thought that over before I answered. “If you wish me to. However, angels are not the same as priests, and there’s some theological question as to whether we can administer the sacraments.”

“It doesn't surprise me that the church has actually debated that question,” George mused. “The Roman Church, I mean. Has the Anglican?”

“Do you suppose we’re counted as Anglicans?” Anne asked.

“I should think so,” George said. “We helped the Church of England separate from Rome. How could they not recognize us?”

Sam, who was standing behind Anne now, started rubbing her shoulders. “You two are from that weird in between time, when the Church of England was only just starting to become its own thing.”

“But we are Anglicans,” George said. “Or Episcopalians, I suppose, here in the United States.”

Sam nodded. “I think Wikipedia lists you both as Anglicans. Maybe you’d be in the Anglo-Catholic wing, though? That means Anglicans who are still into Roman Catholic rituals. High church, I think it’s called.”

“Anglo-Catholic,” Anne repeated. “I can live with that. And I certainly consider an angel capable of administering the sacraments, Castiel. In this case, I don’t care what any church has to say about it.”

“You might wish to retract that,” I warned. “I don’t agree with the traditional teachings on this issue. As far as I’m concerned, sexual relations between two consenting adults who are not bound to anyone else shouldn’t necessarily be regarded as sinful.”

She stared at me. “Do you mean that?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t be carrying on with Dean otherwise.” I shook my head. “Besides, if you intend to keep sleeping with Sam there’s no point in making your confession.”

She had the grace to blush at that.

Sam grinned down at her. “If you feel that strongly about it, let’s just . . . well, let’s get engaged. At least informally.”

Dean, who had been following this conversation with a slightly bored look, suddenly choked. “Wait, what?”

“Betrothed, you mean?” Anne’s eyes widened as she craned her neck to look up at Sam.

George, meanwhile, was narrowing his eyes at Sam. “Ah, you realize that for us, a consummated betrothal—or engagement, if you want to call it that—is essentially a marriage.”

“Yeah.” Sam sucked in a lung-full of air. “I know. But this is 2015, George. Whether the couple is sleeping together or not, an engagement—especially an informal one—isn’t the same thing as a marriage now. It’s just . . . I don’t know. A step along the way.”

“What are the steps?” George demanded.

“Um, well, dating—Anne and I are moving past that, I guess—informal engagement, engagement and then marriage.”

“So two more steps,” Anne said. “I think this informal engagement will assuage my conscience.”

“Well good for you. But that doesn’t mean—” Dean gave his brother a look of disbelief. “You’ve known Anne for about two weeks.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “So what? We’re not getting married yet, okay? It’s going to be a while. And even if we were—look, back in her day, a lot of marriages were arranged. You might have just met the person you were going to marry.”

“And like you just said, Sammy, this is 2015, not 1530.”

“I know. But, Dean, at least admit that things might work out for us.  Anne gets what it means to be a hunter. She’s a Woman of Letters. She’s on board with what we do. And we like each other.”

“And that’s enough for you?” He stared down at Anne. “And you?”

Anne bit her lip. “It is, I think. I was madly, stupidly in love with Harry Percy. And then I was fool enough to fall in love with Henry, even knowing what he was. I think I’d like to be engaged to someone I simply like and respect this time."

But Dean wasn’t giving up. His eyes shot back to Sam. “You get how religious she is, right? Even if she does, uh, fornicate with you.”

He smiled a little. “Yes, Dean, I know. And you know that I’m—well, I’m at least spiritual. In my own way.”

And that was true. Sam was a man of strong faith, in fact, though I’m not sure his brand of faith fit neatly into the box of any one religion.

I stared at Dean. I knew a younger Sam still lived in his memories: a Sam who would have wanted the ‘real thing’ as far as romance went. A Sam who could still fall in love with a nice girl like the Jessica I’d heard the brothers mention. A Sam who had never gorged himself on demon’s blood, never slept with a demon, never lost his soul and never allowed his ruthless side to see the light of day.

But, to his credit, Dean knew that Sam didn’t exist anymore. So, in the end, he shrugged. “Well, if you two are satisfied, fine. At least you still have time to break up.”

Anne laughed. “Thank you for that vote of confidence.”

Sam was smiling too. “Yeah. Thanks, Dean.”

There was, I think, a surprising amount of sincerity in Sam’s gratitude. Despite all his protestations, his older brother’s approval—however reluctant—still meant something to him.

“Stop thanking me. How about you two start using birth control until you’re ready to walk down the aisle? I mean, what the hell, Sam? What would happen if—if anything happened to you back in the 1530s and you ended up with a kid on the way here?”

Sam looked him straight in the eye. “That kid would have the best uncle in the world to help raise him.” He paused to glance at George. “And another good uncle to lend a hand.”

“I would make the attempt,” George promised, “but Dean’s the one with experience raising children. And I suspect he’s better suited to it.”

“And what?” Dean asked. “Anne and me are supposed to raise this kid to this kind of life?”

Sam took a deep breath. “It’s our family business. So, yeah. I guess so. I mean, the kid might want out some day, but until then . . . .” He let his voice trail off with a shrug.

“You hated the way Dad raised us!”

“It doesn’t have to be like that, Dean.”

George coughed, interrupting before Dean could formulate a reply. “Ah, this is all theoretical right now, so let’s set it aside. And meanwhile—well, not that anyone’s bothered to ask me, but I suppose a mere informal engagement between my sister and Sam will do for now.”

Anne smiled at that as she folded her hands neatly on the table. A smile that suddenly turned malicious.

Dean narrowed his eyes at her. “What are you plotting?”

“Plotting? Nothing,” she answered. “I’m just wishing that Henry and Cromwell and all our other enemies knew how well things have turned out for us.”

Dean scoffed. “Let’s wait for Sam and Cas to get back from the 1530s before we start celebrating.”

 

~*~

 

Charlie and Gabriel seemed like instant pals. They emerged from her room laughing over some private joke. Charlie’s arms were full of LARPing clothes, but with a snap of my brother’s fingers, Sam was suddenly dressed in the outfit.

“The shoes and hat will do,” Gabriel said. “As for the rest . . . hosen, breeches—dear Dad, that’s a billowy shirt—doublet and jerkin. It’s all right, I suppose, but kind of flamboyant. And the fabric.” He paused to shake his head at Charlie. “Don’t you people care anything about authenticity?”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Everything I own is linen and wool!” She blushed. “Um, mostly. Anything rayon or polyester represents, um, magically endowed fabric.”

Gabriel flashed her a look of affectionate contempt before snapping his fingers again. Suddenly the wild colors of Sam’s outfit were muted and darkened, and everything was linen or wool, with just a touch of silk.

“There.” Gabriel turned to me with a satisfied smirk. “What do you think, Cas? Does that fit your memories of the 1530s?”

I nodded, impressed. Sam wouldn’t stand out in any crowd, but if someone were to single him out, they would likely mistake him for some modest young lawyer.

“Poor Sasquatch is freakishly tall,” Gabriel continued. “But there were tall folk even back in the day.”

Anne looked outraged. “Not freakish at all! He’s the perfect height. Oh, but don’t smile like that, Sam. You’ll attract too much attention if people notice you have all your teeth.”

Sam and Dean both stared at her.

Her face turned pink. “Castiel fixed mine and George’s.”

Dean turned back to his brother. “So what, no codpiece?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Really, Dean?”

“What?  I thought they were a thing back then.”

“They were for Henry,” Anne muttered.

“But he was over-compensating,” George added.

“That outfit should be fine,” I said, hoping to put an end to the fashion commentary. Then, with a snap of my own fingers, I managed an equally appropriate outfit for myself.

Dean raised his eyebrows at me. It seemed to be a look of approval . . . and appreciation. I felt my vessel blush.

“Are you coming with?” Sam asked.

I blinked, confused, until I realized that he was talking to Gabriel.

“No. Cas can handle this. I’d like to spend some quality time with the two most famous siblings ever accused of incest.” He paused to narrow his eyes. “Plus I need to have a chat with Dean-o here about dating my little bro. He needs to learn a few things if he’s really going to stick with an angel.”

Alarmed, I took a step toward Gabriel. But he held up a hand to stop me.

“Don’t worry, Cas,” he said. “No deadly lessons today, I promise.”

I gave him a look.

Gabriel sighed. “I’m a much gentler teacher now. And I have a soft spot for the Winchester boys, remember?”

I still wasn’t satisfied. I knew just what my brother was capable of.

“Don’t worry. Your boyfriend, and everyone else here, will be in one piece when you two return. Now get going! Time’s a wasting.”

I believed him. I don’t know why—he was still the Trickster—but I did.  Even so, that sack of snakes was back to squirming around inside my vessel’s stomach. I tried to squelch the queasy feeling. At least Gabriel hadn’t said “if” we return.

Sam took a deep breath. He leaned down to kiss the top of Anne’s head. Then he walked over to Dean and pulled his brother into a brief hug. Finally, he walked over to my side. “I’m ready.”

Dean looked hard at both of us. “Take care of each other.”

“We will,” I promised. Then I placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder and we both disappeared.


	30. Albert Magnus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Since I'll be traveling on Monday, I've decided to post two chapters a day, which should mean I finish up on Monday morning before I step onto my train. (God willing, knock on wood, and all that.) Enjoy!

I knew just where—and when—to land. At the King’s Hall in the Tower of London, early on the morning of May 15, 1536. It would be just a few hours before Anne and George’s trials. Cromwell would be there. Plus, it would be easy to get lost in a crowd. More than two thousand people would attend Anne's trial alone.

“Good job, Cas,” Sam whispered after I explained this. He looked around, making sure we had arrived unnoticed amidst all the activity in the hall. Then he peered at me. “Are you all right?”

I took a deep breath, wondering what shape my vessel was in. Did I look as queasy and unsteady as I felt? “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” He was still whispering, but harsher now.

“Sam, I have enough juice to get us home. That’s all that matters. Let’s—let’s just not get into any trouble in between.”

“I wasn’t planning to, believe me.” He looked around for a second time, wrinkling his nose at the stench of so many bodies of such questionable hygiene. “So Cromwell is here?”

“Somewhere, yes.”

I eyed the enormous platform in the middle of the room. Henry ordered it built for this occasion. It would provide a seat for Anne, benches for the lords who would judge her and a throne for her uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, who would represent the king.

There were still workmen present, putting the final touches on the thing. A sharp-eyed, intense man was overseeing them.

Sam followed my eyes and then gripped my arm. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

“Yes. There—you can see the Aquarian star on his ring.” And it was easy to see now that I knew to look for it.

We watched the man complaining to one of the workers on some minute detail—and ordering him to fix it.

“Huh,” Sam said. “Micro-managing much?”

I grunted. “If we’re going to talk to him, this is our chance.”

But Sam was suddenly staring at the chair—the one up on the platform reserved for Anne. His face paled.

“Sam,” I said. “You can’t help her. Or George.”

“So what? We let them go through this?"

"Yes." 

"All the ‘judges’ that will sit on those benches? They’ve already made up their minds, Cas. Henry decided for them.”

“I know. But we can’t change anything. 

"But—"

"You know how this works, Sam.”

He took a deep, ragged breath. “Yeah. I know.”

And then suddenly I knew as well. Why I had to take Sam and not Dean, I mean. It wasn’t Sam’s knowledge of history or of the Men of Letters. It wasn’t the easy way he had picked up Tudor English. Well, not entirely. It was simpler than all that.

Dean couldn’t have stopped himself from trying something to help the Boleyns. Sam—for all his faith and seeming gentleness—was a much colder man than his brother. In fact, Sam was probably every bit as ruthless as the Boleyns themselves.

I watched him redirect his gaze on Cromwell. Then he straightened up and marched over. I followed in his wake.

“Lord Cromwell?” Sam’s voice was soft, but steady. And there was no mistaking the steel behind it.

Cromwell turned away from the harried workman. Something in Sam’s demeanor seemed to impress him . . . something that made him decide it was worth his while to address him. “Thou hast the advantage against me, sirrah.”

I frowned. ‘Sirrah,’ when not used with affection, was an insult. And ‘thou’ could be familiar—or a way to talk down to someone. After all his training with the Boleyns, Sam must have known that. But he didn’t react at all, except to offer Cromwell a flawless bow.

“My name,” Sam said, “is Albert Magnus.”

 

~*~

 

Cromwell’s face turned ghost-white. Obviously the Men of Letters had used the name ‘Albert Magnus’ even in his day. It served both as a code and as a way of remaining incognito among the masses.

“I see,” he managed.  “Follow me.”

Abandoning the worker he’d been busy micro-managing, he stalked out of the King’s Hall. Any number of men—and some appeared to be high ranking—clamored for his attention along the way, but he extricated himself with just a word or two. He also sent some underling off to fetch his nephew.

Sam and I exchanged glances at that—this, no doubt, was the nephew who would become a Man of Letters himself in due time.

I’m not sure which part of the Tower complex we ended up in; some of the buildings are different now. Anyway, Cromwell led us to a small office that he must have made use of often: there was holy water, a silver knife and an iron dagger at the ready.

He reached for the holy water first. “Forgive me.” Then he splashed it in our faces.

Sam sighed as we rolled up our sleeves for the inevitable cuts. I let my vessel bleed from the knife and the dagger; I don’t think our plan included announcing me as an angel. But bleeding turned out to be much easier than it should have been. I was still tired out from bending time.

Cromwell, to do him justice, allowed Sam to test him in all the same ways. Not that he needed to; I could see that the man was human.

“Satisfied?” Sam asked as we straightened our sleeves again.

“Yes,” he answered. “What is thy name? Thy true name.”

“Samuel Winchester.”

Cromwell turned to me. “And thou?”

“Castiel.”

Cromwell peered at me.

“Castiel Winchester,” Sam continued smoothly. “We are Men of Letters, such as yourself.”

“If you are Men of Letters, I would know you. I know each in England. And many beyond.”

Sam shrugged.  “It appears, my lord, that you know less than you think you do.”

Cromwell stiffened. “Who initiated thee, sirrah?”

“My grandfather.”

That was . . . not exactly the truth. There never had been a formal initiation. But it was close enough.

“His name was Henry Winchester,” Sam continued. “And unlike you, _sirrah_ , he was a man of honor.”

“I pray thee take care, Master Winchester,” Cromwell warned. “We are not yet truly acquainted.”

“My grandfather did the Men of Letters credit. He did not bear false witness. He did not plot to commit murder with a mockery of judges and juries. He never betrayed his own friends.”

The blow came faster than either Sam or I expected—Cromwell’s fist slammed into Sam’s gut, leaving him gasping. But not for long. Sam smacked his own head into Cromwell’s and followed with an uppercut to the man’s jaw.

The fight would have continued. Sam might be a hardened hunter, but Cromwell was said to have been a ruthless mercenary back in the day. I could have knocked the pair of them out easily, I suppose—but I was trying to preserve my grace.

“Enough!” I didn’t shout, but I raised my voice just enough to get their attention.

They both turned and stared at me.

“Sam was born on the 2nd of May, Anno Domini 1983,” I said. “Hence you know him not.”

“Cas . . .” There was a warning note in his voice.

I ignored it. Telling Cromwell the truth might help us avoid pointless bloodshed.

“And I am simply Castiel.” Much as I would have liked to claim Winchester as my last name.

Cromwell hesitated. “Castiel,” he said, “is the name of—

“An angel of the Lord,” Sam finished for him. “Cas is an angel, yes. He brought me here for to garner information from you.”

He paused to stare steadily at Cromwell.

Cromwell stared back. His face was a mixture of disbelief, outrage, curiosity . . . and reluctant fascination.

Sam sighed. “Whatever you are,” he said, reverting to his own manner of speech, “you’re a fellow Man of Letters. You owe us the truth.”

 

~*~

 

Cromwell listened; I’ll give him that much. And as for Sam . . . well, he didn’t spare any details. Once I had blurted out the truth, he must have figured there was no point.

Unfortunately, the truth didn’t sound all that probable. Cromwell’s eyes widened as Sam began, but then grew narrower and narrower as he brought the story to a close. “Her Majesty and Rochford? Alive in Anno Domini 2015?”

“Rochford?” Sam cocked his head. “Oh, right. George’s title. Yes, they’re both with us. And, for what it’s worth, both are Men of Letters now.”

Cromwell raised his eyebrows at me. “And you were not deceived?”

“I know Anne and George. I comforted them—I will comfort them—before their executions. It’s them.”

“And they can see him in his true form,” Sam added. “Most humans can’t. Not without getting their eyes burned out.”

“Even were I to believe the rest of your tale, this I would find incredible. Neither Her Majesty nor her brother are of such holiness—”

“It’s not a question of holiness,” I interrupted. “I don’t know why certain special humans can see us as we are.”

“This is madness.” Cromwell shook his head. “I require proof.”

That was, unfortunately, a reasonable request. Sam turned to me and shrugged. I nodded.

I couldn’t show him my true form, so I revealed as much of myself as I had to Dean back when I first introduced myself to him after raising him from perdition. Back when he had fiddled with that ridiculous summoning spell in that old, rickety barn.

My grace flooded the tiny room. The walls shook. The candles flickered and almost died—but then they grew brighter and brighter. The glass of one of the lamps shattered. My eyes, I know, blazed an unearthly blue and Cromwell took a step backward, nearly slamming into his own desk as he took in the shadow of my wings.

Sam stared at Cromwell and then back at me. His hazel eyes—a softer version of Dean's—were wide and his mouth was a little open. How many angels had he known and interacted with? Regardless, the presence of grace in that almost tangible way still filled him with wonderment.  

Cromwell held out his hands, as if they’d be sufficient to protect him. “Enough!”  

I stopped. The room went eerily silent, except for Cromwell’s ragged, heavy breaths.

“Castiel passed your tests,” Sam said at last. “You know he’s no demon. He is what he says he is: an angel of the Lord.”

Before Cromwell could answer, there was a quick knock followed by the sound of the door opening. “Uncle?”

I turned around to see this nephew of Cromwell’s for myself—but stopped short.

He was a human, of course. A serious, studious looking human, as one might expect from Cromwell’s nephew. But he was also a vessel.

While Jimmy Novak was alive, I had never entirely eclipsed him; he was present and aware of my actions and I knew when he approved and when he disapproved. But I remained in control. Richard Cromwell, on the other hand, seemed to be entirely in control at the moment—the angel was . . . well, lying back, I suppose. Or he had been, until Richard entered the room and saw me.

“Cas?” Sam’s voice was concerned. “What’s wrong?”

No wonder he was worried. I was trembling. My vessel’s stomach was squirming again. It took all my concentration to keep from vomiting. Sam put a hand on my arm, as if to steady me, but I shook it off and forced myself to turn back to Cromwell.

“I must speak with your nephew alone,” I said. “Stay here, both of you. And don’t kill each other.”

Sam and Cromwell stared at each other and then back at me. But both managed a nod.

I stalked out, with ‘Richard’ following in my wake. He chuckled as soon as we were outside and, without even looking around to see how many people would notice us, he placed a hand on my shoulder and winged us both to some kind private bed chamber.

I stepped back from him and tried to inhale slowly. My head was still spinning. It’s not often, after all, that you come face to face with the brother you murdered.


	31. Confessions

“Balthazar,” I said.

“Castiel, my brother.” He cocked his head at me. “Yet not the Castiel I know.”

“No.” I took a deep breath and switched to Enochian. Well, Enochian with some English, Latin and Hebrew mixed in—Enochian by itself is not exactly a conversational tongue. “I bent time to come here. I’m from 2015, as the humans here currently reckon the years.”

“Quite a trip.” He started circling me, looking me over. “You are . . . very different. And I don’t mean just your current vessel.”

“Why are you here?” I countered. “Why this . . . why this vessel?”

The question seemed to confuse him. “Why am I here? I’m stationed here, of course. Temporary thing—I’ll be back to our unit in no time.”

I swallowed. This was Balthazar before Sam, Dean, Bobby and I stopped the apocalypse. Before he discovered the power of free will for himself . . . and made the most of it. This era—this was when God seemed more present to us, even if we were not among the angels actually admitted to the Presence.

I turned away from him. I had no idea how to continue. This was Balthazar—but not my Balthazar.

“Castiel? Why are you here? What is your mission?”

I didn’t turn around to answer him. “I don’t have a divine mission, Balthazar. Things are different in 2015. But I’m here to find out if one of us intends to raise Anne and George Boleyn back to life at some point in the future.”

“Why aren’t you looking at me?”

My vessel’s face was hot. And my eyes were suddenly watering. “Because . . . because things have happened. Bad things. I—I’ve done some bad things since this time, Balthazar. And I’m ashamed of them.”

“Huh. And whatever you’ve done . . . I imagine it concerns our unit?”

“Our unit is in shambles. It concerns you.”

“Interesting.” He did not sound upset. Or even surprised. “Don’t say more—we wouldn’t want to risk changing the future, would we?”

Yes. Yes, I wanted to change the future. I wanted to tell him everything. But I had just read a lecture to Sam on this same subject; I wouldn’t be that much of a hypocrite.

“No, we wouldn’t.” I sucked in a lungful of air. “I need to know about the Boleyns.”

“How are you involved with them? You’re not their guardian.”

“No. I don’t know who their guardian is. I . . . on the evenings before their respective executions, I heard each of their prayers.”

I could sense Balthazar nodding behind me. “They have powerful prayers.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I offered them—will offer them—strength and comfort.”

“I see.” He chortled. “Well, this is a pretty problem. So someone did raise the Boelyns?”

“Yes. In 2015.”

“Good. Then that, at least, went as planned.”

I spun around. “As planned? Who planned this?”

But Balthazar shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. I can confirm that someone considerably higher up on the food chain than you or me has taken an interest in the Boleyns. That’s why I’m stationed here. He ordered me to watch them, but not to interact with them.”

“And that’s why you took Cromwell’s nephew for a vessel.”

“Yes. I have to be careful with the young man—he’s not a true vessel for me. But I won’t have to keep up this charade much longer. The king will have his way soon enough, and both Boleyns will be dead before long.”

“Balthazar, this is important.” I raised my hands, intending to put them on his shoulder, but then let them drop instead. I had no right to touch him. “You don’t owe me any answers, but I need to know that Anne and George belong in the future. That their presence there won’t . . . conflict with the way things were meant to be.”

He made a face at that—a face that expressed sympathy and distress and a bizarre sort of optimism all at once. For that moment, at least, he looked like the Balthazar I knew best: the one who had embraced free will and human mannerisms.

“Here’s the problem.” Balthazar began to pace the room, pausing now and then to scratch his head. “The angel who gave me these orders is, um, a bit of under a cloud at the moment. He’s, uh—well, I assume, ultimately, he is taking his orders from our Father. How could he not be? He’s no Lucifer. He hasn’t fallen.”

I stared at him. “Who is it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Balthazar, Anne and George’s lives depend on this answer. They’re with the Men of Letters now. I need to know if that society should lay them back to rest.”

“That’s where they’re supposed to be, according to this angel.” Balthazar finally stood still again. “He said that they would help the Men of Letters through a crisis. But not now. At some point in the future, when the society was all but destroyed. The Boleyns would use their talents to help them rebuild.”

“Fine. But who gave the order?”

He sighed. “You won’t like my answer.”

I closed my eyes. Why would he be so reluctant to name our superior? Unless . . .

“Gabriel,” I said. “You’re in contact with Gabriel.”

“Yes.”

The word was heavy coming out of his mouth—and no wonder. No one in our unit, at this point, knew where Gabriel was or what he was doing. But there were any number of rumors about him: that he had, under orders from our Father, gone to the Cage to talk sense into Lucifer. That he was on some other special, top secret assignment concerning humanity. Or that he had fled heaven after some vicious and bloody argument with Michael.

I don’t think any of us believed that last one. The Archangel Gabriel abandon his post? That seemed impossible. And yet . . . .

“He must still be working for our Father,” Balthazar continued. It sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “He’s no rebel.”

I felt sick to my stomach. I walked over to the bed and slumped down on it. “Damn it.”

Balthazar raised his eyebrows at me.

“I’ve spoken with Gabriel,” I said. “Just before I used my grace to come back here. He could have told me all this himself.”

“Then this isn’t about the Boleyns at all.” Balthazar raised his eyebrows at me. “This must be about you.”

I swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“Gabriel knew I was here. If he encouraged you to come back, then he knew you would meet me.” He grunted. “You know how our older brother just loves to teach us these annoying lessons of his.”

“But I don’t understand what the lesson is!” I barely stopped myself from pounding the bed with my fist. “What am I supposed to learn here? I can’t fix things between you and me. Nothing I could say here—nothing I could do—can ever fix that!”

Balthazar just stared at me.

“I’m sorry.” The words felt like they were squeezed out of my chest. “I’m so sorry. This isn’t fair to you. I can’t even tell you what happened—”

He cut me off. “And I don’t want to know. Castiel, if you’re acting like this . . . Father help us, you must have rebelled. You’re feeling far too much guilt otherwise. You sound like a bloody human.”

I kept silent.

“And if you rebelled . . . .” He let his voice trail off as he took a seat beside me. “Well, I trust that you’ve repented now.”

“I can’t repent. Our Father doesn’t listen anymore. And I’m too far gone to go back to how I was.”

“Our Father always listens.”

I just shook my head.

“All right, you clearly believe He doesn’t. Even if you’re wrong, I suppose that doesn’t matter.” He seemed to meditate on that. “But you aren’t like Lucifer. So you’re . . . you’re what? You almost seem, well, human.”

I kept silent.

“You are human! Or, well—no. You’re an angel with a lot of humanness to you, I suppose. I had no idea that was possible.”

“It is.”

He looked intrigued. “So you must feel like the humans leaving Gan Eden: there they are, burdened with all this knowledge and free will, but with no path back to a more innocent time.”

“Yes.” What was the matter with me? Was I incapable of anything more than one syllable responses?

He put one hand over mine. “Well, whatever you did to our unit or to me, you’re going to have to pull yourself together and carry on.”

“How? I should be destroyed for the things I’ve done.”

“If our Father wanted you destroyed, He’d see to it, don’t worry. And Gabriel—I assume he knows everything?”

“Yes.”

“And yet he hasn’t destroyed you either.” Balthazar stood up. “So, like I said, pull yourself together and return to the mission.”

“But—”

“Enough, Castiel. You have what you came for: you can rest easy about the Boleyns. I’m under orders to resurrect them at the proper time, and if I fail Gabriel will see to it.”

I rose to my feet. “I know, but—”

He put a hand over my mouth as a warning and then let it drop. “You have battles to fight and charges to protect. Now get out of here and go see to your bloody duty!”

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave at that. So I didn’t. I stood there instead, shaking and trying to stop myself from vomiting

And then I told him everything.

 

~*~

 

I must have looked like hell when I winged my way back to Cromwell and Sam. They both stared up at me, momentarily distracted from their conversation. Cromwell, to do him credit, seemed to be in the midst of explaining various points of Tudor lore about the Men of Letters and the creatures they researched. Sam, meanwhile, had his hands full of parchments and books—presumably to bring back with him and add to our library.

Before either of them could speak, I placed a hand on Cromwell’s forehead. “Our mission here is complete,” I told him. Then I used my grace to ease him into unconsciousness.

Sam caught him on his way down to the floor, dropping some of the parchments along the way. “Cas!”

“We don’t need to speak with him any longer,” I explained. “Should we leave him his memories?”

“Yes! I can’t leave him wondering where all these Men of Letters documents disappeared to. And, dude, there’s a lot more I could learn from him.”

“No.” I shook my head for emphasis. “I must return us to our time at once. We’ve learned what we came for.”

“How? From Cromwell’s nephew?”

I nodded.

“What happened? Was some angel using him as a vessel?”

I wasn’t surprised that he had figured that out. “Yes. It was Balthazar.”

Sam huffed out a breath as he moved Cromwell to his chair. “So he was involved in all this.”

“Yes. He was stationed here to keep an eye on Anne and George, but he was under orders not to interact with them. Or, I presume, reveal himself to them.”

“And?” Sam was stock still now.

“And I think Anne and George belong in our time now.”

That wasn’t good enough, apparently. “You think?!”

I snorted. “How far do you trust Gabriel?”

“Completely.”

“You—what?” I stared at him. After everything my older brother had put him through, how could Sam possibly trust him implicitly? Sam had been the butt of Gabriel’s pranks more than once. And these weren’t harmless pranks.

Sam sighed as he released Cromwell and took a seat on the edge of his desk. “Look, I don’t like the way Gabriel teaches his lessons, okay? I mean, I didn’t need to see Dean die in front of me a hundred times in a hundred different ways. I didn’t need to be zapped into those stupid TV shows. I didn’t—look, despite all that, he stood up to Lucifer with us.  And I think he does weirdly care about me and Dean. And . . . .”

“And what?”

He shrugged. “I think there’s more to him than we’re seeing. And, I don’t know. Maybe I just need to believe he’s one of the good guys. He’s the only archangel left who might be, right? So I need to believe that he has our back. I just . . . I can’t bring myself to hate the guy, okay? I want him to be on our side.”

I walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I think he is.”

“Good.” Sam knelt down to pick up the parchments that were now scattered on the floor. “So why did you bring him up?”

I let my hand drop. “He stationed Balthazar here. And he ordered Balthazar to resurrect Anne and George at some point in the future—when they could be the most use to the Men of Letters.”

“But Balthazar is dead . . . unless he faked his own death again too.”

I gave Sam a sour smile. “That’s too much to hope for. No, I think Balthazar really is dead." Or would have been, if I hadn't just confessed everything to him. What had Balthazar done with that information? Had he acted differently? He must have.

"Cas?"

I gave myself a mental shake. Maybe nothing had changed. Or maybe everything had. Either way, at that moment, I couldn't tell Sam what I had done. "Gabriel wanted me to come back and see him.”

“Another one of his lessons, huh?”

I bit my lip. “A hard one.” And one I might have failed, considering everything I just revealed to Balthazar. I felt that sack of snakes squirming around my vessel once more. This might have been a greater sin than all my others combined.

Sam nodded slowly. “Look, I know how you feel about what you did to Balthazar. But Dean and I have screwed up too. You know that. After everything we’ve done—and all the things we can’t fix—well, we just have to keep going, right? There’s still some good we can do. I hope.”

“You’re right.” I swallowed as I put my hand back on his shoulder and squeezed it. “Are you ready?”

His eyes looked doubtful. “Are you sure you’re ready? You’re looking worn out, man.”

“I’m sure. I know I have enough mojo to get us back.”

“But—”

Whatever he was going to say, I ignored it. I winged us back to the Bunker. And I know we got there in one piece . . . but that was all I remembered before blacking out.


	32. One of the Good Guys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there! One last chapter (after this one) to go.

I woke up to the sound of harsh whispers. Dean, I realized. Dean arguing with my older brother.

Cautiously I squinted one eye open and then the other. I was in Dean’s bed—our bed, I mean. Our room was lit by only one lamp, I suppose because I’d been sleeping. I must have been considerably weakened, because even that small light felt piercing.

Once my vessel’s vision adjusted, I found the source of the angry noise. Dean had Gabriel pinned up against the wall. He was clutching the archangel by the shoulders and it sounded like he was threatening him with each and every method of torture he had mastered under Alistair in hell.

Gabriel, for his part, was just chuckling. He could have tossed Dean across the room with just a snap of his fingers. Or literally knocked him into next week. And they both knew it.

“Dean?” I croaked.

He released Gabriel and spun around. “Cas? Cas, you’re all right!” Then he was at my side, brushing his lips against mine and soothing my hair.

“Hi,” I managed.

He smiled. “Hi. How are you, buddy?”

“I’m okay. Where’s Sam?”

“He’s fine. He’s in the other room. He and George and Charlie just got back from a hunt.”

“Charlie?”

Dean shrugged. “It was a pretty tame ghost—just a salt and burn. I figured it was safe enough to let her go.”

I frowned. “I don’t understand. We just got back. When did you find out about the ghost?”

“Uh . . . Cas, when you got back, it was a week after you left. And then when you landed, you blacked out, man. You’ve been out of it for more than two weeks. It’s been, like, eighteen days now.”

“Eighteen days!”

“Yeah.” Dean ran his fingers through my hair again.

I closed my eyes and arched my neck, melting into his hand.

“There, you see Dean? I told you your boy toy would be just fine.”

My eyes shot back open at that—I had forgotten that Gabriel was still there. And, judging from the look on his face, so had Dean.

“You can have Castiel all to yourself later, bucko, I promise,” Gabriel continued. “But right now I need a few words with my brother. So be a good little human and amscray.”

Dean looked murderous. Specifically, he looked like he wanted to choke Gabriel, but I intervened by reaching for his hand. “I do need to talk with him. Just for a little while.”

“Fine.” The murderous look was still in his eyes, but I could tell he was making an effort to squelch it as he leaned over to kiss me goodbye. But he shot Gabriel one last glare as he left the room and slammed the door behind him.

“Aw.” Gabriel shook his head in Dean’s wake. “Well, at least he’s learned to appreciate you.”

I sighed as I pushed myself up a little and then leaned back against the pillows. “Why is he so angry with you?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Oh, let me count the ways. He’s angry because I wouldn’t use my mojo to heal you up completely the second you landed and blacked out on us. I tried to explain that it’s better for you, in the long run, to let your batteries recharge on their own—but noooo, your fearless commander thinks he knows best.”

“Dean hates being called ‘fearless commander.’”

“I know. That’s why I’m making a habit of it.” He took a seat on the edge of the bed, facing me. “Often in your voice—minus the gravel—just to remind him of that crazy alternate future Zachariah sent him to.”

I blinked. “He told you about that?”

Gabriel made a wavy motion with his hand. “More or less. It spilled out of him during one of our little sessions.”

“Ah, sessions?”

“Yes, sessions. Dean and I have been getting to know each other quite well—I’m his therapist, punching bag and brother-in-law all wrapped into one.”

I had no idea what to say to that. I guess that didn’t matter, because Gabriel kept going.

“But where was I? Oh, right. All the reasons your boyfriend hates me. So, yeah, I didn’t instantly heal you the way he wanted me to. And then I wouldn’t give him a straight answer about the whole profound bond thing between you two. He seems to think you’ll be past your expiration date once he dies—and apparently you put this idea into his head?”

“I didn’t mean to. I just—”

“Wasn’t thinking?  Damn straight. What the hell inspired you to tell a human with abandonment issues that you think Dad might just snuff you once you’ve done your duty?”  

“I was just being honest! Dean thought maybe the reason our Father keeps resurrecting me is because I’m his guardian.” I paused to sigh. “And I think—I think he’s right, Gabriel. But that may mean that once Dean dies, I’ll have fulfilled my purpose.”

“And therefore you think Dad will end you, and Dean’ll face all eternity alone.”

“You don’t think that’s a possibility?”

“What I think is that Sam and Dean—and hell, maybe you too—have seen way too much of the worlds beyond this one. But not nearly enough to grok it all. There’s a reason humans don’t usually have this kind of knowledge.”

“Gabriel, if our Father has no further use for me after Dean dies, isn’t it better to prepare him for that now?”

“No. Not even if that were true.” He paused and—if I wasn’t imagining things—his eyes softened a little. “Listen bro, you’re not afraid of dying, are you?”

I thought that over before I answered—but only for a moment. “No. I want to stay with Dean for all eternity. But . . . well, after everything that’s happened, I’m just grateful for the time I have with him. And with Sam and Charlie and Anne and George and the rest of our makeshift family.”

“Good. Not saying that you will die, but that’s the right attitude. And that’s what Dean needs to learn.”

I snorted. “After everything that’s happened, you expect Dean to be grateful to our Father? He’s been through hell, Gabriel. Literally.”

“Oh, cry me a river.” Gabriel scowled. “Not that I mind serving as his punching bag, but for his sake, he needs to grow up about this stuff. I mean, come on, Cas. So he doesn’t know what’s going to happen to you when he dies. So what? Most humans don’t know what happens when anyone dies.”

I sat up a little more. “Wait. You said that before—what do you mean, serving as his punching bag?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? He’s currently taking every issue he has with Dad out on me.”

“Why?”

“I suppose an archangel is as close as he can get. But, hey, I don’t mind. He seems a lot happier with someone specific to blame.”

I blinked again. Why would Dean blame Gabriel that way? But I pushed that thought aside as I remembered my meeting with Balthazar. “You knew,” I said. “You knew all about Anne and George from the beginning. You’re the one who resurrected them.”

“I am, yes.”

“You left Anne tied up in a hotel room!”

That earned me another shrug. “I wanted to give a little air of mystery to the whole thing. And the Jefferson Hotel was a nice touch, don’t you think, considering all the time you and Balthazar spent there.”

“And then you left George alone and roaming Branch Brook Park.”

“Come on, bro. I had a specific reason for wanting you to revisit places that reminded you of our slain brother.”

I slumped back down. “You mean the brother I murdered.”

“That would be the one, yes.” His expression turned serious. “Castiel, the one thing that Dean and I agree on is that you can’t keep beating yourself up over this. That whole fiasco with the Leviathan—no, you can’t fix all the harm you caused back then. So you have to live with it. You know, constructively.”

“Gabriel, I feel like—I don’t know how to describe it. Like there’s a sword stabbing my vessel’s innards.”

“Good. I never said not to feel guilty, Cas. That guilt is your cross to bear. Just stop indulging in other random acts of punishing yourself.”

I thought that over. “I told Balthazar what happened. Exactly what I did to him. I—I’m sorry. I know it was wrong. What happened? Did history change?”

“No.”

My eyes flew to his. “I don’t understand. Balthazar—he’s not alive? He didn’t . . . he didn’t avoid me?”

 Gabriel shook his head. “No. Everyone continued to play their parts. Balthazar especially.”

“But . . . you’re saying that Balthazar still helped me work against Rafael? And he still—”

“Yes. He helped you against Raphael. And he helped the Winchester boys when he saw with his own eyes how far gone you were.”

My vessel seemed incapable of forming words. “But . . . why?” I managed.

“As far as Raphael went?” Gabriel shrugged. “He probably thought you were the lesser evil. And when he knew—when he really knew for himself, I mean—what you were turning into, he took the only course he thought was open to him. Raphael had to be stopped. But so did you.”

“He did this knowing what I would do to him.”

“Yes. Balthazar was one of the good guys.”

I didn’t know what to say. For a long moment, we were both silent. I suppose we were each remembering Balthazar. Remembering how, because of me, he had to sacrifice himself for the greater good.

At length Gabriel sighed. “Listen, bro. For the record, better you and the Leviathan than the burnt shell that Rafael would have left of this world.”

I snorted. “Well, thanks for that, I suppose.”

“You’re welcome. And now let’s talk about your new mission.”

“My new mission? We don’t have directives from our Father anymore, remember?

Gabriel gave my arm a playful punch. “Never mind about Dad,” he said. “I’m giving you this mission. I still outrank you, remember?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’ve embraced free will.”

“True. But there’s a reason you and Dean mesh so well together. On some level, both of you still love playing the good soldier.”

All right. Despite everything, I couldn’t help but smile at that.

“Good boy,” Gabriel said. “Besides, I’m just ordering you to keep doing what you’re doing: watch over Sam and Dean and this whole new incarnation of the Men of Letters. And I mean it. Don’t get sidetracked anymore! Let the angels worry about themselves for a change.”

My smile grew wider. “You’re right. I don’t mind that order.”

“Good.” He patted my shoulder. “Now get some more rest—your batteries still need a lot more recharging.”

“Wait.  You’re not leaving are you?”

He hesitated. “Not quite yet. I’m finally watching **_Downton Abbey_** for real. But once we’re done with that . . . .”

I didn’t bother to hide my disappointment. “You’ll be gone?”

“I’ll be around, Castiel. I promise. But I need to keep some distance.” He stood up and sauntered toward the door. “At least one of us should try to stay detached from these crazy kids.”

 

~*~

 

Dean must have been waiting right outside the door. I heard him exchange words with Gabriel as the archangel left the room. Then Dean came inside, looking much less murderous than he had a few minutes ago. I smiled at him as he stripped down and crawled into the bed next to me.

“Gabriel’s going to tell everyone that you’re awake and all right.” Dean paused to settle into the crook of my shoulder. “But he’s going to keep everyone out to make sure I get you to myself tonight.”

“See? My brother’s not all bad.”

Dean just grunted. “Forget about him. Right now, mine angel, I get to take care of you.”

I started stroking his hair. “That sounds nice. Very nice.”

He lowered his voice to a seductive whisper. “Then tell me what you want. Massage? Blow job? Three course dinner in bed?”

I thought about all of them. They were enticing suggestions—but they also sounded exhausting. Besides, what I really wanted was a promise from Dean. A promise to hold my hand just once the next time we were in some random diner.

But that would have been a petty, unfair request. Dean wasn’t there yet, and I knew that. Maybe he never would be. Besides, why should public displays of affection even matter to me? Gabriel was right; I was becoming ridiculously human.

“Cas?”

I’d been lost in thought, I realized. “Sorry. Everything sounds good, Dean—but I really just want to talk and rest and . . . and just hang out.”

He smiled up at me. Not a suggestive or seductive smile this time. No, it was that glorious smile of his that always seemed like it could light up the entire planet. “Sounds great.” He nestled in a little more. “So I heard about your trip from Sam. But what did you think of Cromwell?”

I kept stroking his hair as I answered. I don’t remember how long we talked that night, but I do remember telling him everything—even the way I had risked changing history to make my confession to Balthazar. Dean just shrugged it off, pointing out that nothing came of it . . . and that I would punish myself for that more than he or Gabriel ever could.

“I’m sure Gabriel could find you a hair shirt if you really feel that strongly about it,” Dean added.

I remembered smiling a little at that as I breathed Dean in, treasuring his nearness and thanking my Father for however much time we would have together.

For this little slice of eternity, at least, I had everything I needed.


	33. A Sliver of Gratitude

We woke up to a knock on the door. Dean groaned and buried his face against my chest. I grinned and ruffled his hair, but then gave in as the knocks became more insistent. “Come on in!”

Sam, Anne, George, Charlie and Gabriel all traipsed inside, armed with laptops and folders and some of the record books of the Men of Letters. Well, except for Gabriel, who didn’t carry anything but the lollipop in his mouth.

Gabriel settled on the bed next to me, as if he’d been invited. Dean narrowed his eyes at him but, after I shot him a pleading look, refrained from ordering my brother off.

“So.” Charlie started typing away on her laptop. “We have a lot of business to discuss this morning.”

Dean groaned again.

Gabriel reached across me to smack him on the shoulder. “Come on, fearless leader. Pay attention.”

I put a hand on Dean’s shoulder to dissuade him from any murderous reaction. To my astonishment, that actually worked.

“All right,” Dean muttered. “What do you have for us, Charlie?”

“Actually, Anne and George came up with this one. Anne?”

“Is it a case?”

“No, Dean,” Sam chided. “Give the lady a chance to speak.”

“It’s a list of potential new recruits,” Anne explained. “We’ll need to research some of these people in greater detail, but they all have something valuable to contribute to the Men of Letters.”

“Right,” George agreed. “But some are obvious because you’ve worked with them before and know their worth, starting with Cole Trenton. He’d be invaluable with his military connections—”

“No.”

Gabriel popped the lollipop out of his mouth “Dean, we talked about this. You all need to focus on building the Men of Letters into an organization that will outlast you. Spoiler alert: you’re not going to be around forever.”

“I get that,” Dean said. “But that dude has spent enough time serving in the line of fire. He’s got a family to think about.”

My brother leaned forward so he could stare past me, straight into Dean’s eyes. “Yeah. He’s another good soldier. Make the call and he’ll be here. Tell him to bring the wife and son if you want—they’ll be as safe as you can get them here in the bunker.”

But Dean was adamant. “I’m not giving in on this one.”

“Let’s skip Cole for now.” Sam made a note in one of the ledgers. “Um, Cas, I hope you’re okay with this, but Claire is on her way here.”

Dean blushed. “Yeah. She was worried about you, man. I held her off while you were still out of commission, but now that you’re better . . .” he shrugged and let his voice trail off.

I stared at Dean and Sam in turn. “Claire wants to be here?”

Claire Novak was my vessel’s daughter. I wanted very much to play a larger part in her life, but our relationship was often . . . strained. That wasn’t surprising, considering what happened to her father while I was busy using his meat suit.

“Yeah, she wants to be here,” Dean said. “And I’m okay with that—she can stay for a couple of weeks and then we’ll figure out if she’s better off with us or back with Jody. Either way, she’s still determined to be a hunter, so we might as well train her up.”

“And this Jody Mills is another candidate,” Anne said. “Though I understand she wouldn’t be based here.”

“No, she’ll probably want to stay where she is,” Sam agreed. “But that’s good. We need to start spreading out again.”

“Now, there are a few FBI agents who seem to have crossed paths with hunters before,” Charlie said. “I have another list here—”

I tuned out as Dean argued against any outsiders. He would probably win that battle—but I suspected he’d agree to Cole Trenton sooner or later. Gabriel seemed determined to have the marine, and as stubborn as Dean is, I didn’t think he’d outlast my brother. Well, not on this topic, anyway.

“How about this,” Sam said after the argument died down. “Why don’t we start with integrating a group that’s already in the game?"

Dean looked suspicious. "Who'd you have in mind?"

"Let’s invite Aaron, his golem and anyone he’s recruited to visit the bunker. I mean, at the very least, we should be tighter allies with him. We should share a lot more information. And, who knows? Maybe we can merge a little. You know, see if the Judah Initiative wants to become a branch of the Men of Letters or something.”

I recognized Sam’s tactic—he must have learned it from the Boleyns. Start by allowing George and Anne to request something Dean would never agree to: outside recruits. That would make it easier to get him to accept an idea that he wasn’t so hostile to: closer ties with Aaron.

Dean was starting to recognize this tactic too; I could tell from the way his soul seemed half calm and half on edge. But at length he nodded. “Fine. I’ll call Aaron today.”

Charlie grinned at me. “Better watch out, Cas. Sam said that Dean had a gay thing with this Aaron guy.”

Dean gave me a sheepish smile. “Kind of a long story—but trust me, you have nothing to worry about.”

“I’m just intrigued at the thought of working with Jews,” Anne put in. “Though I suppose we’re like to meet Muslims and Hindus and Buddhists and what have you as well, eventually.”

Everyone stared at her.

She blushed. “In our day, it was impossible to remain outside the church—at least in public.”

“Yeah,” George agreed. “Freedom of religion is still a radical idea to us. As is, you know, the ease of bathing and such.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah. The stench in your day—sorry, but it was overwhelming.”

Anne put a hand on his arm. “We were more hygienic than you’re giving us credit for. It’s just that washing the clothes and such to the extent you’re accustomed to was such a chore. But I admit that I’ve grown quite partial to both washing machines and showering every day.”

Dean shot her a look. “Or practically every hour, considering the way you and my brother fuck like rabbits.”

“Oh, don’t be jealous, Dean.” She blew him a kiss. “You have Cas, so I can have Sam.”

I know what Dean wanted to say:  _Sure, until Sammy comes to his senses._  But he didn’t. Part of him, I think, was remembering his brother with Ruby. Anne was still a vast improvement.

“Aw, that leaves me and George out in the cold,” Charlie complained. “And you, Gabriel.”

The archangel winked at her. “I’m not really a settle-down kind of guy. But as for you and George—I’m sure we can find a suitable recruit for each of you.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, that is so not happening. I’m not agreeing to any more new recruits.”

Gabriel gave the lollipop one last lick before standing up again. “We’ll see. But for now, let’s reconvene by the big flat screen. We have one more season of  ** _Downton Abbey_** , kids, before we’re caught up.”

He led the way out of the room. But Dean didn’t follow; he just shook his head as everyone else filed out.

“You don’t want to watch?” I asked.

“Nah,” he said. “It’s a—well, a surprisingly decent show, okay? Parts of it, anyway.  It’s gets a pass. But you haven’t seen it from the beginning and . . .” he shrugged. “I’d rather spend some quality time with mine angel.”

I heard what he left unspoken:  _because who knows how much time we’ll really have together?_  There were no guarantees about forever.

Whoever was last out the door—Sam, I think—shut it behind him. I took advantage of our sudden privacy.

“I’d like that, Dean. Time to ourselves, I mean.” And then I leaned over him and pulled him into my arms.

We kissed slow and deep. I told myself it was a kiss worthy of forever, no matter how much, or how little, time we had left to savor.

Dean seemed to read my mind. “I’m not giving us up,” he told me as we broke apart. “If you die, man, I’ll find a way to torture Gabriel until he brings you back.”

I grinned down at him. “I don’t think that’s the lesson Gabriel’s trying to teach you.”

“Yeah, no kidding. But fuck his lessons.”

I smiled—but in a sad sort of way.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you agree with him.”

“All I know, Dean, is that I’m grateful for every moment we have.”

“Grateful to who?”

I shrugged. “To my Father. To Fate. To sheer dumb luck—to whoever or whatever’s appropriate.”

Those gritty green eyes of Dean’s softened at that. “Don’t think I’m not grateful, Cas. But I don’t want to face eternity without you. I’ll ask Gabriel to throw me into the fucking sun and obliterate me before it comes to that.”

I bit back another smile. I know that any amusement was completely inappropriate at that moment—in the face of all that angry emotion from Dean—but I couldn’t help it.

“What the fuck?” Dean stared at me. “What’s so funny?”

“Dean, you won’t even hold my hand in a diner. But you’d ask Gabriel to destroy you because you miss me so much?”

His mouth fell open. “I—fine, man. The next time we’re in a diner, I’ll hold your hand, okay? I’ll hold your freaking hand and make out with you in the freaking booth if you want.”

I kissed him again. “I’d like that, but that’s not the point.”

“I know what you think the point is, Cas. I’m sorry. You want to be grateful for whatever smidgen of time God allows us to be together? Fine. I respect that. But don’t expect me to be okay with losing you.”

“Dean—”

“Shhh.” He put one finger over my lips. “You know what? Don’t even worry about this. This is between me and Gabriel.”

I shifted. “Why you and Gabriel? Sounds like this is between you and God.”

He shrugged. “Whatever. Gabriel’s the one I can bitch to about it. And I’ll give him this much: he puts up with all my bitching. And threats. So points for that, I guess.”

There was a sliver of gratitude in Dean’s voice. And that was a start, I suppose.

I leaned down to kiss him again. He met me half way . . . and both of us banished any further thoughts of time or eternity or Gabriel or the Men of Letters. For a little while, at least, we were both the fullness of each other’s world.

 

-The End-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who made it all the way through this story--and thank you especially for the comments, kudos and encouragement! 
> 
> Any additional comments that you don't want to leave here? Feel free to email me at miri.thompson18@gmail.com. I'd also love just connecting with more fans of the show. And I'll be at the SPN convention in Secaucus this year, so I'd love to hear from anyone else who's going. :)


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